We had a power outage last night. All the lights in the area went out. Very exciting. And we had another one today-no phone, no internet, no nothing. Bummer.
So-this is later than I wanted. Sorry! I did get a chance to have a look at the Google Doodle-I love those, I always click to see the graphics, and to read any useful information on people I didn't know existed. Google is great that way.
Naturally, the Guardian had something to say about the doodle: it isn't Happy Holidays, they said, it is Happy Christmas. They said that most Americans don't like the Christmas bit, so we make good holiday wishes very politically correct. This is coming from a lowly rag (I would never call it a newspaper-that's an insult to the real papers!!) filled with revisionist, xenophobic, racist bullcrap. And that is just the staff!
So-excuse ME!!!! Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Happy Chanukah (late). Happy Anything and Everything I missed. And, most of all, Happy New Year!!! I think we can all agree to that one.
I decided that, in the interests of Christian forgiveness and all that, I would send holiday greetings to the three cripplers: Sofia Grigoriadou, Phillip (not very) Bright, and Hilary Longhurst. I would even resist the urge - strong as it may be- to ask how many more patients they've crippled up to now. Forgiveness...hmmmm...
BUT- I couldn't find a card that said "Season's Greetings, thanks for not killing me. Better luck next time!!" Someone really should start making cards that say what people think, not just polite ones.
I really should start doing greeting cards myself. For instance, one could say "Merry Christmas, you rat bastard, I want a divorce!". Or, another one could say "Happy Easter, you lying, miserable cheat. I hope she gave you a hideously painful flesh-eating disease and it falls off into your soup". Then there is "You are a boring, tedious cretin, who would have you anyway?"
And there is my personal favorite: "Thanks for the one night stand. Until I met you, I never knew an adult male could be so very, very tiny." That fits a lot of people I used to know..( the tiny. Not the one night stand).
I'll bet there is a market somewhere for truth cards-especially the last one, which could be printed on an oversized postcard so everyone could see it.
Of course, I could always put these on YouTube. What do you think? I will have to sit down and think of more, of course. But that is a good start. All in the name of politically correct forgiveness, of course.
I had to call the police about my noisy, insane neighbour from Hell upstairs. He has been doing his business in my garden, and screaming threats at me. So two nice, young (they look so young these days. They don't even look old enough to shave, let alone arrest people). The baby police are going to look into it (meaning: do nothing until he attacks me, and then only do something if there are witnesses. Typical). So I said I am going to carry something noxious, just in case. One said, no, I would get into serious trouble. So I said I would carry a can of Raid bug spray. They were very clear about not doing anything like that. Of course, I did NOT tell them that the can of Raid would actually be a can of mace. I did ask if I could buy a taser and use that. After all, if it's good enough for the police, it's good enough for me.
The younger, baby-faced one said that if I have something in the house, naturally the police wouldn't want to see it-or know about it. What about a Stanley knife? I asked. I gave up after that-they were starting to become alarmed. I will keep my options open...
And-there is a glass of wine with my name on it. I've been waiting all day for a glass of wine. Yay. Merry Wednesday.
Oh-by the way-what do you get when you cross a Jack Russell terrier with a Shih Tzu?
A Jackshit, of course!
Now we all need some wine...
Tuesday, 24 December 2013
Sunday, 22 December 2013
Tits Away - Tis the Season to Be Grumpy
Have I got news for you? Yes, I have! But let me start at the beginning...
On Friday, December 13th (eek. Friday the 13th!) there was supposed to be a meteor shower. I set my alarm for four o'clock so I could have a look. I saw-nothing, and it was bloody cold, too. But I remembered the film Night of the Triffids, for some reason. I was just as glad I didn't see anything.
I love those old B-movie science fiction films, made before I was born. This was great, and I recommend renting the original, if you can find it. The remakes are crap. Why do they bother remaking classics, and then they wreck them? Might as well call them Attack of the Celluloid Turkeys and be done with it.
Well-I have been everywhere, I have seen everyone, been poked, prodded, blood-letted, sampled and examined within an inch of my life-just so I can be alive after New Year's Day, I suppose. And what was I told? I am in really good health-for my age. I had to reply that the least people could do is just leave it at the fact that I'm in good health, and forget the last bit-if they want to reach my age, that is!
So I went to see Heidi, the vestibular physiotherapist, and she gave me a list of things she wants me to do before she sees me in January. Heidi is going on maternity leave, so that will be the end of vestibular physio. What she told me was that I might-and she meant "might"-get 80% of the ability to do the things I used to do, not 80% of complete balance (as in, a normal person) back. And it will take time, given the year that I have had. She wants me to leave the eye exercises alone and start going out and doing all the things I would ordinarily do: go to the museum, go to the theatre, and so on. I am to walk uphill, downhill, in the daylight, dusk and dark. And I am to get on the underground, too. Heidi said that the only way my brain will make new neural pathways is if I challenge it relentlessly, by doing everything I have been unable (and unwilling) to do since the gentamicin thing happened.
On Sunday, I decided to delete LinkedIn. I thought about all this since the invitation arrived from the Spawn of Satan, aka Bob Dimmack, my miserable ex-husband. I've been wanting to unsubscribe from LinkedIn for months, since I see no point in having it. I don't even use Facebook, because I keep forgetting the password. And here is where the news comes in.
I got onto LinkedIn- and there it was, a photograph of a very nice looking sports car. Who was standing in front of it, but Bob himself. Not only that, but he shares the account with-his wife. I could have screamed, I was that upset and angry.
Now, I left him because I got sick of his manipulative bullying, his constant putting me down, his tendency to put me down, threaten me and call me the "c" word. Bob was an emotional terrorist-and, because I cared about him (and was clearly insecure, as he was), I stayed. After awhile I began to believe him. That was the way he controlled me, as he did (I believe) his previous wives. And when I finally had enough and filed for a divorce, he swore he would be penniless out on the street before he would give me a penny. By the way, we worked together throughout the marriage-so I was entitled to half of everything. I loathed him so much by that time, I told him to shove everything and I left. With nothing. So - I would never, ever back to him. So why was I so upset?
I had to think seriously about this. And-after a few days, I realized that he had only sent the LinkedIn invitation to rub in my face the fact that he has a sports car and a new life. Even eight years later, he still wants to upset me. He succeeded-but only briefly.
It isn't like I want him to get run over by a bus. Well, maybe if it runs over his legs. Four or five times.
What has happened to Christian forgiveness? It's Christmas, and all that-and who cares? Screw forgiveness. I finally felt nothing but pity-and then total indifference-but, really, the man treated me like something you step in, and-I certainly am not mystified as to why he wanted to get in touch. He wanted to gloat. Sad, really.
So do I wish him a happy life? No. Hell, no! I wish him years of the kind of misery he inflicted on me. I wish him Irritable Bowel. Acid reflux. Insomnia. Arthritis. Gout. Impotence. Hemorrhoids. Genital herpes, and shingles. And if there is such a condition as "old geezer's boils and acne", I wish him that, too.
Vindictive, me?? Now I feel better. And with the passing of a week and some serious thinking and regaining of perspective, I can see how pathetic he is to contact me at all. There is clearly a good reason I call him the Spawn of Satan!
I said "perspective"-and that is really true. I have better things to think about than a nasty, pathetic, pitiful bully. The time since I walked out on him might have been difficult (it was, very), and the last four years (gentamicin, etc.) were dire and horrific, but I realized how strong, powerful and resilient I really am. I got through it.
And this is the end of the year, and I am glad to see the back of it. Roll on, 2014. I can deal with anything now. I've dealt with worse than emails from a total asshole!!
On Friday, December 13th (eek. Friday the 13th!) there was supposed to be a meteor shower. I set my alarm for four o'clock so I could have a look. I saw-nothing, and it was bloody cold, too. But I remembered the film Night of the Triffids, for some reason. I was just as glad I didn't see anything.
I love those old B-movie science fiction films, made before I was born. This was great, and I recommend renting the original, if you can find it. The remakes are crap. Why do they bother remaking classics, and then they wreck them? Might as well call them Attack of the Celluloid Turkeys and be done with it.
Well-I have been everywhere, I have seen everyone, been poked, prodded, blood-letted, sampled and examined within an inch of my life-just so I can be alive after New Year's Day, I suppose. And what was I told? I am in really good health-for my age. I had to reply that the least people could do is just leave it at the fact that I'm in good health, and forget the last bit-if they want to reach my age, that is!
So I went to see Heidi, the vestibular physiotherapist, and she gave me a list of things she wants me to do before she sees me in January. Heidi is going on maternity leave, so that will be the end of vestibular physio. What she told me was that I might-and she meant "might"-get 80% of the ability to do the things I used to do, not 80% of complete balance (as in, a normal person) back. And it will take time, given the year that I have had. She wants me to leave the eye exercises alone and start going out and doing all the things I would ordinarily do: go to the museum, go to the theatre, and so on. I am to walk uphill, downhill, in the daylight, dusk and dark. And I am to get on the underground, too. Heidi said that the only way my brain will make new neural pathways is if I challenge it relentlessly, by doing everything I have been unable (and unwilling) to do since the gentamicin thing happened.
On Sunday, I decided to delete LinkedIn. I thought about all this since the invitation arrived from the Spawn of Satan, aka Bob Dimmack, my miserable ex-husband. I've been wanting to unsubscribe from LinkedIn for months, since I see no point in having it. I don't even use Facebook, because I keep forgetting the password. And here is where the news comes in.
I got onto LinkedIn- and there it was, a photograph of a very nice looking sports car. Who was standing in front of it, but Bob himself. Not only that, but he shares the account with-his wife. I could have screamed, I was that upset and angry.
Now, I left him because I got sick of his manipulative bullying, his constant putting me down, his tendency to put me down, threaten me and call me the "c" word. Bob was an emotional terrorist-and, because I cared about him (and was clearly insecure, as he was), I stayed. After awhile I began to believe him. That was the way he controlled me, as he did (I believe) his previous wives. And when I finally had enough and filed for a divorce, he swore he would be penniless out on the street before he would give me a penny. By the way, we worked together throughout the marriage-so I was entitled to half of everything. I loathed him so much by that time, I told him to shove everything and I left. With nothing. So - I would never, ever back to him. So why was I so upset?
I had to think seriously about this. And-after a few days, I realized that he had only sent the LinkedIn invitation to rub in my face the fact that he has a sports car and a new life. Even eight years later, he still wants to upset me. He succeeded-but only briefly.
It isn't like I want him to get run over by a bus. Well, maybe if it runs over his legs. Four or five times.
What has happened to Christian forgiveness? It's Christmas, and all that-and who cares? Screw forgiveness. I finally felt nothing but pity-and then total indifference-but, really, the man treated me like something you step in, and-I certainly am not mystified as to why he wanted to get in touch. He wanted to gloat. Sad, really.
So do I wish him a happy life? No. Hell, no! I wish him years of the kind of misery he inflicted on me. I wish him Irritable Bowel. Acid reflux. Insomnia. Arthritis. Gout. Impotence. Hemorrhoids. Genital herpes, and shingles. And if there is such a condition as "old geezer's boils and acne", I wish him that, too.
Vindictive, me?? Now I feel better. And with the passing of a week and some serious thinking and regaining of perspective, I can see how pathetic he is to contact me at all. There is clearly a good reason I call him the Spawn of Satan!
I said "perspective"-and that is really true. I have better things to think about than a nasty, pathetic, pitiful bully. The time since I walked out on him might have been difficult (it was, very), and the last four years (gentamicin, etc.) were dire and horrific, but I realized how strong, powerful and resilient I really am. I got through it.
And this is the end of the year, and I am glad to see the back of it. Roll on, 2014. I can deal with anything now. I've dealt with worse than emails from a total asshole!!
Thursday, 12 December 2013
'Tis the season not to be poultry
I've done my due diligence since the last time I posted. I went everywhere, saw everyone, got poked, prodded, blood letted, scrutinized like a bug under a microscope-and decided that I would take a bit of time and think about reasons to be grateful.
I'm grateful that I am not a turkey-or a guinea fowl, chicken, pig, goose, or anything that can be roasted, stuffed, sautéed, fried, boiled or microwaved. I'm grateful that I'm not an animal that can be sliced and diced and served on a platter with sprouts, sweet potatoes, beans, and whatever everyone has for Christmas dinner!
Oh, the way the poor animals are treated-it's almost enough to make me a vegetarian.
Years ago, there was an outbreak of foot in mouth disease, and the BBC showed graphic footage of cattle being slaughtered by the thousands. All over Britain cows and pigs were being killed. You could see piles and piles of dead animals. I wanted to cry. And then-this is a true story, by the way!- the government stated that it was okay to sell the slaughtered animals for human consumption as long as the diseased bits were cut out first.
I can truly say that I have not eaten red meat in this country since then-and that must be 20 years ago. What a way to take care of overpopulation: just poison everybody.
Having given you such cheerful news - especially if you are red meat lovers!!-I actually do have some good news. Fantastic news will be when I am no longer using crutches, canes, or anything resembling a walking stick. Fantastic news will be when I can jump up and down and tell you that I have at least 80% balance. But-not yet, although you bloggees know by now that I refuse to give up, no matter what happens or how many times I am tempted. No quitting for me!
The good news? It probably doesn't sound important to anyone else, although-I need to say at this point that I do not do any kind of needlework. No knitting, or crochet, or any of that stuff. I don't sew. Period. Especially now-there would be a great deal of swearing and blood loss, because I still have trouble focusing on where I want needles to go (out the window, usually).
That is why we have tailors, and cleaners with people who mend your clothes if that is what's needed.
But-I had a button that needed to be sewn back on, and I felt that I couldn't wear this shirt outside without the button, or I would look like a bag lady. I didn't want to bring it to my cleaners-it's only a button, not something earthshaking! So-I found my needle and thread, and decided to do it myself.
This needle was tiny. I do mean, tiny. I could barely see the eye, let alone thread it. And at home you could buy a needle threader, but no such things can be found in this country. Can't see it? Tough, is the mindset. So I sat and worked at it for about five minutes-and, sure enough, my perseverance paid off. I managed to thread the needle, sew the button on without stabbing myself anywhere, and, as the saying goes, Bob's your uncle (I don't know where that expression comes from, but it fits just about any situation, so there you go. Bob's your uncle.). Job done, although I managed to drop the needle and can't find it anywhere. No doubt I'll find it by stepping on it-then you'll be able to hear me swear in Minneapolis.
All in all, the last few weeks-and months-have been very tiring, and extremely traumatic. But I got through it all. I'm either very strong or completely crazy, because I just keep going. The alternative leaves a great deal to be desired.
I'm just about finished with all the doctors and physiotherapists for this year. Everything closes down over Christmas, I'm glad to say! I will have free time-what a very weird feeling, I can actually sit and think about what to do to amuse myself. I must admit I would like to shove an axe in the head of the deranged, obnoxious, psychopathic (and noisy as hell) cretin who lives upstairs. But-that is a nice fantasy. Everyone I know has shared that with me at some point or another. Noisy, rotten neighbours-is that an epidemic or what? I've heard horrible neighbor stories from other people-this nutter seems almost tame in comparison. So that is another reason to be grateful . Ish.
I don't have an IPad, or an IPod, or a Kindle, or a nice widescreen television, or any of that other stuff that so many people have and so many people covet. If you don't either, don't worry. It could be worse. You could be a turkey.
I'm grateful that I am not a turkey-or a guinea fowl, chicken, pig, goose, or anything that can be roasted, stuffed, sautéed, fried, boiled or microwaved. I'm grateful that I'm not an animal that can be sliced and diced and served on a platter with sprouts, sweet potatoes, beans, and whatever everyone has for Christmas dinner!
Oh, the way the poor animals are treated-it's almost enough to make me a vegetarian.
Years ago, there was an outbreak of foot in mouth disease, and the BBC showed graphic footage of cattle being slaughtered by the thousands. All over Britain cows and pigs were being killed. You could see piles and piles of dead animals. I wanted to cry. And then-this is a true story, by the way!- the government stated that it was okay to sell the slaughtered animals for human consumption as long as the diseased bits were cut out first.
I can truly say that I have not eaten red meat in this country since then-and that must be 20 years ago. What a way to take care of overpopulation: just poison everybody.
Having given you such cheerful news - especially if you are red meat lovers!!-I actually do have some good news. Fantastic news will be when I am no longer using crutches, canes, or anything resembling a walking stick. Fantastic news will be when I can jump up and down and tell you that I have at least 80% balance. But-not yet, although you bloggees know by now that I refuse to give up, no matter what happens or how many times I am tempted. No quitting for me!
The good news? It probably doesn't sound important to anyone else, although-I need to say at this point that I do not do any kind of needlework. No knitting, or crochet, or any of that stuff. I don't sew. Period. Especially now-there would be a great deal of swearing and blood loss, because I still have trouble focusing on where I want needles to go (out the window, usually).
That is why we have tailors, and cleaners with people who mend your clothes if that is what's needed.
But-I had a button that needed to be sewn back on, and I felt that I couldn't wear this shirt outside without the button, or I would look like a bag lady. I didn't want to bring it to my cleaners-it's only a button, not something earthshaking! So-I found my needle and thread, and decided to do it myself.
This needle was tiny. I do mean, tiny. I could barely see the eye, let alone thread it. And at home you could buy a needle threader, but no such things can be found in this country. Can't see it? Tough, is the mindset. So I sat and worked at it for about five minutes-and, sure enough, my perseverance paid off. I managed to thread the needle, sew the button on without stabbing myself anywhere, and, as the saying goes, Bob's your uncle (I don't know where that expression comes from, but it fits just about any situation, so there you go. Bob's your uncle.). Job done, although I managed to drop the needle and can't find it anywhere. No doubt I'll find it by stepping on it-then you'll be able to hear me swear in Minneapolis.
All in all, the last few weeks-and months-have been very tiring, and extremely traumatic. But I got through it all. I'm either very strong or completely crazy, because I just keep going. The alternative leaves a great deal to be desired.
I'm just about finished with all the doctors and physiotherapists for this year. Everything closes down over Christmas, I'm glad to say! I will have free time-what a very weird feeling, I can actually sit and think about what to do to amuse myself. I must admit I would like to shove an axe in the head of the deranged, obnoxious, psychopathic (and noisy as hell) cretin who lives upstairs. But-that is a nice fantasy. Everyone I know has shared that with me at some point or another. Noisy, rotten neighbours-is that an epidemic or what? I've heard horrible neighbor stories from other people-this nutter seems almost tame in comparison. So that is another reason to be grateful . Ish.
I don't have an IPad, or an IPod, or a Kindle, or a nice widescreen television, or any of that other stuff that so many people have and so many people covet. If you don't either, don't worry. It could be worse. You could be a turkey.
Saturday, 30 November 2013
Return of the Rabbit - Yay!!
This is the season of excess: too much food, too much drink, and too much of just about everything!
A very belated Happy Thanksgiving to everyone. I would have posted this on Thursday, but I was busy eating. And drinking champagne (to celebrate being alive and reasonably well-for my age, they tell me!). In fact, I also celebrated last night, because Reverend Andy and his wife Miriam invited the Americans in the congregation for a Thanksgiving dinner. So-more food, and lashings of wine. So I did it all over again-shame on me (it was fun, though)!!
If I keep eating I will either explode or I will be the size of an aircraft carrier and the only way I will be able to get into the house is if I'm hoisted by a forklift. Ewww.
I spent all this time (since the last post) with this nasty flu, or chest infection, or whatever was rattling around my chest and making it sound like a set of conga drums. I was worried that the antibiotics wouldn't fix it and I would be in for yet another hospital stay-but, happily, that didn't happen. And I was very grumpy, because I realize that the problem is: other people are breathing.
If other people would just stop breathing, I would never get sick. They cough, they sneeze, they spit (really disgusting), and if they are this gross outside, I would hate to ever visit them at home. I would have to wear gloves and a mask, and carry a truckload of disinfectant before I would even come within a hundred yards. If I could get away with wearing gloves and a mask in public (and not look like Michael Jackson), I would. But I would probably be beaten up. So forget it. I just carry a lot of Purell in my bag. If it's good enough for hospitals, it's good enough for me!!
Ah, we need people to stop breathing. There would be no more Guardian readers. Or obnoxious people. Or the typical population (brain-dead). And no more people from Essex!!!
Some people dream about winning the lottery. Others dream about winning the Nobel Prize. I dream about ridding this country of 98% of the population. It would be - well, not so bad then!! Oh, well...
I was thinking about Guy Fawkes, who tried to blow up Parliament in 1604. Well, he tried. And failed. And was captured. And tortured. Anyone who is a history buff will know that the Brits -when it comes to inflicting torture (past and present) - make Guantanamo Bay look like a vicar's tea party, or a day at the beach. And they have the nerve to slag us off? The words "pot", "kettle" and "black" spring immediately to mind.
The way this country is going, we need a good clear out in Parliament. People say Guy Fawkes was (almost) a hero. But he got caught. And tortured. And executed. And he failed. What a dumb ass!!!
I'm happy that I am still here - well, "here" meaning alive, not "here" here, if you know what I mean (I know, the lapse in grammar and syntax are, I promise, only temporary!). I would love to be back Stateside. It might not be perfect (that's obvious!!), but it beats this dump by a mile.
Now that Britain is part of the European Union, everyone is coming in from everywhere. Some people do work-but a lot go straight to the dole office to claim benefits, homes, medical care-and people who actually were born here are starting to create a fuss. That is unusual for the British: to start shouting about their rights, and start asserting themselves. I hope it isn't too late. I came here and started to work almost immediately, and I have worked since, all the way up to the gentamicin disaster, which rather finished my work life (and nearly finished me off). So I can appreciate the resentment, although I just keep my head down and my mouth shut. It took me long enough to learn how to do that!!
In America, we call people who don't want to work and deliberately live off the people who do (the taxpayer) "parasites". Here, they call them "royalty".
What a strange world we live in!!!!
A belated Happy Thanksgiving. An early Merry Christmas. Unless something untoward happens, I am back (I shouldn't really say that-but I'm doing it anyway!!).
A very belated Happy Thanksgiving to everyone. I would have posted this on Thursday, but I was busy eating. And drinking champagne (to celebrate being alive and reasonably well-for my age, they tell me!). In fact, I also celebrated last night, because Reverend Andy and his wife Miriam invited the Americans in the congregation for a Thanksgiving dinner. So-more food, and lashings of wine. So I did it all over again-shame on me (it was fun, though)!!
If I keep eating I will either explode or I will be the size of an aircraft carrier and the only way I will be able to get into the house is if I'm hoisted by a forklift. Ewww.
I spent all this time (since the last post) with this nasty flu, or chest infection, or whatever was rattling around my chest and making it sound like a set of conga drums. I was worried that the antibiotics wouldn't fix it and I would be in for yet another hospital stay-but, happily, that didn't happen. And I was very grumpy, because I realize that the problem is: other people are breathing.
If other people would just stop breathing, I would never get sick. They cough, they sneeze, they spit (really disgusting), and if they are this gross outside, I would hate to ever visit them at home. I would have to wear gloves and a mask, and carry a truckload of disinfectant before I would even come within a hundred yards. If I could get away with wearing gloves and a mask in public (and not look like Michael Jackson), I would. But I would probably be beaten up. So forget it. I just carry a lot of Purell in my bag. If it's good enough for hospitals, it's good enough for me!!
Ah, we need people to stop breathing. There would be no more Guardian readers. Or obnoxious people. Or the typical population (brain-dead). And no more people from Essex!!!
Some people dream about winning the lottery. Others dream about winning the Nobel Prize. I dream about ridding this country of 98% of the population. It would be - well, not so bad then!! Oh, well...
I was thinking about Guy Fawkes, who tried to blow up Parliament in 1604. Well, he tried. And failed. And was captured. And tortured. Anyone who is a history buff will know that the Brits -when it comes to inflicting torture (past and present) - make Guantanamo Bay look like a vicar's tea party, or a day at the beach. And they have the nerve to slag us off? The words "pot", "kettle" and "black" spring immediately to mind.
The way this country is going, we need a good clear out in Parliament. People say Guy Fawkes was (almost) a hero. But he got caught. And tortured. And executed. And he failed. What a dumb ass!!!
I'm happy that I am still here - well, "here" meaning alive, not "here" here, if you know what I mean (I know, the lapse in grammar and syntax are, I promise, only temporary!). I would love to be back Stateside. It might not be perfect (that's obvious!!), but it beats this dump by a mile.
Now that Britain is part of the European Union, everyone is coming in from everywhere. Some people do work-but a lot go straight to the dole office to claim benefits, homes, medical care-and people who actually were born here are starting to create a fuss. That is unusual for the British: to start shouting about their rights, and start asserting themselves. I hope it isn't too late. I came here and started to work almost immediately, and I have worked since, all the way up to the gentamicin disaster, which rather finished my work life (and nearly finished me off). So I can appreciate the resentment, although I just keep my head down and my mouth shut. It took me long enough to learn how to do that!!
In America, we call people who don't want to work and deliberately live off the people who do (the taxpayer) "parasites". Here, they call them "royalty".
What a strange world we live in!!!!
A belated Happy Thanksgiving. An early Merry Christmas. Unless something untoward happens, I am back (I shouldn't really say that-but I'm doing it anyway!!).
Tuesday, 19 November 2013
Once again, into battle...unforseen but as usual!!
Whenever I say I'm back-something happens. Sometimes I feel that the anti-destination league is in full force (not to mention Mr. Murphy and his bloody law!!!).
It rained. And rained. And rained so much that the thought of an ark building course was beginning to look more than just a little attractive!! And I got flu. And some imbecile crashed into me and I spent a week with my bad leg on pillows...it has just been one of those two and a half week periods that was very, very testing!! But it's done, my leg is better, we have something that resembles sunshine today (tomorrow it is supposed to rain, unfortunately), so here I am, ever the pessimistic optimist (or optimistic pessimist, depending on your point of view).
On Halloween afternoon I checked my emails..and would you believe it, there was an invitation from my ex-husband to join his group on LinkedIn. Now that is what I call an anti-social network. Of course, I was intrigued, so I clicked on the invitation only to be informed it had been withdrawn.
Now this is a man who was (and probably still is) a nasty, manipulative, antisocial bully who spent years torturing me emotionally. He never hit me, but I felt too weak and exhausted to leave him. That makes me a bit of a twit, doesn't it? Yes, for sure. When I finally had enough abuse and walked out, I was told that he would be out on the street before he would let me have a penny, even though we had worked together for nearly all our married life. Imagine his shock when I told him to shove everything (guess where?), I was leaving anyway. So it was not an amicable divorce. I think he probably had a doll made and stuck pins in it every night.
I scrolled through the emails and found a second invitation-same thing, same person-and I clicked on it, figuring I would delete it afterward. Lo and behold, I was informed that we were now friends. Friends!! I'd rather have malaria.
So I emailed him and said I got his invitation, and does this mean we are no longer mortal enemies? In a flash, I got an email back, telling me that the invitation was a mistake, he hit the wrong key, and he wants absolutely no communication with me whatsoever (whatsoever was two words. He never could spell worth a damn). If it was a mistake, why did he do it twice? What a total ass.
So I phoned my sister Jessica, who couldn't believe I even responded. She always thought he was a total jerk. Jessie has more common sense than I do (and she's my little sister!!). What did you expect? she asked. An apology, I said. That sounds ridiculous, even to me.
I'm still kicking myself for falling for that -whatever it was-lapse of brains on his part, or whatever. And lapse of sense on my part for even responding.
Bloggees, you live and you learn....some of us learn more slowly than others.
What can I say? If not for Monty Python and marijuana, I wouldn't have made it through high school...
It rained. And rained. And rained so much that the thought of an ark building course was beginning to look more than just a little attractive!! And I got flu. And some imbecile crashed into me and I spent a week with my bad leg on pillows...it has just been one of those two and a half week periods that was very, very testing!! But it's done, my leg is better, we have something that resembles sunshine today (tomorrow it is supposed to rain, unfortunately), so here I am, ever the pessimistic optimist (or optimistic pessimist, depending on your point of view).
On Halloween afternoon I checked my emails..and would you believe it, there was an invitation from my ex-husband to join his group on LinkedIn. Now that is what I call an anti-social network. Of course, I was intrigued, so I clicked on the invitation only to be informed it had been withdrawn.
Now this is a man who was (and probably still is) a nasty, manipulative, antisocial bully who spent years torturing me emotionally. He never hit me, but I felt too weak and exhausted to leave him. That makes me a bit of a twit, doesn't it? Yes, for sure. When I finally had enough abuse and walked out, I was told that he would be out on the street before he would let me have a penny, even though we had worked together for nearly all our married life. Imagine his shock when I told him to shove everything (guess where?), I was leaving anyway. So it was not an amicable divorce. I think he probably had a doll made and stuck pins in it every night.
I scrolled through the emails and found a second invitation-same thing, same person-and I clicked on it, figuring I would delete it afterward. Lo and behold, I was informed that we were now friends. Friends!! I'd rather have malaria.
So I emailed him and said I got his invitation, and does this mean we are no longer mortal enemies? In a flash, I got an email back, telling me that the invitation was a mistake, he hit the wrong key, and he wants absolutely no communication with me whatsoever (whatsoever was two words. He never could spell worth a damn). If it was a mistake, why did he do it twice? What a total ass.
So I phoned my sister Jessica, who couldn't believe I even responded. She always thought he was a total jerk. Jessie has more common sense than I do (and she's my little sister!!). What did you expect? she asked. An apology, I said. That sounds ridiculous, even to me.
I'm still kicking myself for falling for that -whatever it was-lapse of brains on his part, or whatever. And lapse of sense on my part for even responding.
Bloggees, you live and you learn....some of us learn more slowly than others.
What can I say? If not for Monty Python and marijuana, I wouldn't have made it through high school...
Thursday, 31 October 2013
How to build an ark
Three weeks without posting on my blog. I've set a record-and not in a good way, either!!
And where have I been? Well-it's been raining. And raining. And raining. And, as much as I used to like the rain (I live in England, so I'd better like rain!!), it hasn't been my friend since 2010. When it rains, I fall over. And I don't see very well. So, I very nearly fell in front of a bus a couple of times. That was scary; I would have come to a very sticky end (literally), and someone would have had the unfortunate job of scraping me off the road with a spatula. Moving buses? There is no way to win that fight.
So I lay low, and I only went out when I had to-which was nearly every day, because during October all I did was see consultants, and physiotherapists-what a very boring month! And a wet one, too. I rang my nurse to ask him to google building an ark-because it was beginning to look like that was the way to go. And, wouldn't you know it, there are pages of instructions on how to build an ark? There are also many arguments about how long it took Noah to build his, and who helped him...the usual ridiculousness. But ark-building? There it was. I had to laugh. My nurse thought I was nuts. Whatever.
I did take myself to Starbucks (where else?) to get a coffee. It stopped raining (this morning) long enough for me to do that. And I sat there and had to listen to these two plonkers having a discussion at top volume (they clearly thought they were the only ones in the café). I looked at them and I thought to myself: Guardian readers. They must be Guardian readers. And I'll bet they don't work, either-so they are unemployed Guardian readers.
The Guardian is a very right-wing tabloid-well, a half a step up from a tabloid, since whoever writes their drivel actually uses words of more than one syllable (two syllables. More than that would cause such a strain their eyes would bleed).Those who "write" (for want of a better word) just spew bile everywhere. Like the tabloids (the Mail, the Express, the Mirror, the Sun, and all those whose value only extends as far as house training your pet), the Guardian takes itself very seriously. Sadly, so do its readers!!
These two are having this discussion (Guardian readers. God forbid they call anything what it really is: an argument!). They then proceeded to wave the paper around, pointing to it so we all could see that it was-the Guardian! What a shock that wasn't. And they started having a debate about Jews (they hate Jews), and blacks (ditto), and Asians-they hate just about everyone. Then they started on the USA-which, according to their infinite wisdom (??), is responsible for every problem everywhere in the world. The NHS is imploding? Our fault. The world is coming to an end? Yep, clearly our fault.
Plagues, illiteracy in this country, poverty-must be us.
So finally I had enough. I got up, and walked near them, crutch in hand-and as I passed their table, I stopped and looked at them. In my absolute best fake local accent (not bad at times-especially this time), I said:" you have both positively confirmed a suspicion I've had for years. Actually, you proved it as absolute, concrete, unshakeable fact." Before they could ask what I was talking about, I then said: "You proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the plural of brain-dead ignoramus is- the BRITISH!".
Luckily (for me) two women with a load of little kiddies were coming in the door as I was leaving, so they didn't come after me. But I smiled as I left, and I can tell you, I felt quite smug. Not only that, I got home without nearly falling over-so I should tell people off more often-but only if they are smaller than me. These two were-about three times my size. Their fists on my face would not be a good look.
So that was my three week hiatus-and I finally gave in and ordered a new computer with a larger screen. No more hiding from rain and crappy weather, waiting for my eyes to clear.
And it is Halloween!! This is one holiday of ours that seems to have caught on. So, Happy Halloween. I've got too much to say to have no chance to say it (I know that's terrible grammar and syntax, but hey, I live in the UK. It's not as if anybody would know the difference!!).
And where have I been? Well-it's been raining. And raining. And raining. And, as much as I used to like the rain (I live in England, so I'd better like rain!!), it hasn't been my friend since 2010. When it rains, I fall over. And I don't see very well. So, I very nearly fell in front of a bus a couple of times. That was scary; I would have come to a very sticky end (literally), and someone would have had the unfortunate job of scraping me off the road with a spatula. Moving buses? There is no way to win that fight.
So I lay low, and I only went out when I had to-which was nearly every day, because during October all I did was see consultants, and physiotherapists-what a very boring month! And a wet one, too. I rang my nurse to ask him to google building an ark-because it was beginning to look like that was the way to go. And, wouldn't you know it, there are pages of instructions on how to build an ark? There are also many arguments about how long it took Noah to build his, and who helped him...the usual ridiculousness. But ark-building? There it was. I had to laugh. My nurse thought I was nuts. Whatever.
I did take myself to Starbucks (where else?) to get a coffee. It stopped raining (this morning) long enough for me to do that. And I sat there and had to listen to these two plonkers having a discussion at top volume (they clearly thought they were the only ones in the café). I looked at them and I thought to myself: Guardian readers. They must be Guardian readers. And I'll bet they don't work, either-so they are unemployed Guardian readers.
The Guardian is a very right-wing tabloid-well, a half a step up from a tabloid, since whoever writes their drivel actually uses words of more than one syllable (two syllables. More than that would cause such a strain their eyes would bleed).Those who "write" (for want of a better word) just spew bile everywhere. Like the tabloids (the Mail, the Express, the Mirror, the Sun, and all those whose value only extends as far as house training your pet), the Guardian takes itself very seriously. Sadly, so do its readers!!
These two are having this discussion (Guardian readers. God forbid they call anything what it really is: an argument!). They then proceeded to wave the paper around, pointing to it so we all could see that it was-the Guardian! What a shock that wasn't. And they started having a debate about Jews (they hate Jews), and blacks (ditto), and Asians-they hate just about everyone. Then they started on the USA-which, according to their infinite wisdom (??), is responsible for every problem everywhere in the world. The NHS is imploding? Our fault. The world is coming to an end? Yep, clearly our fault.
Plagues, illiteracy in this country, poverty-must be us.
So finally I had enough. I got up, and walked near them, crutch in hand-and as I passed their table, I stopped and looked at them. In my absolute best fake local accent (not bad at times-especially this time), I said:" you have both positively confirmed a suspicion I've had for years. Actually, you proved it as absolute, concrete, unshakeable fact." Before they could ask what I was talking about, I then said: "You proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the plural of brain-dead ignoramus is- the BRITISH!".
Luckily (for me) two women with a load of little kiddies were coming in the door as I was leaving, so they didn't come after me. But I smiled as I left, and I can tell you, I felt quite smug. Not only that, I got home without nearly falling over-so I should tell people off more often-but only if they are smaller than me. These two were-about three times my size. Their fists on my face would not be a good look.
So that was my three week hiatus-and I finally gave in and ordered a new computer with a larger screen. No more hiding from rain and crappy weather, waiting for my eyes to clear.
And it is Halloween!! This is one holiday of ours that seems to have caught on. So, Happy Halloween. I've got too much to say to have no chance to say it (I know that's terrible grammar and syntax, but hey, I live in the UK. It's not as if anybody would know the difference!!).
Thursday, 10 October 2013
Life is difficult...blah,blah, blah-and then it isn't
Life is difficult...that is the first line of a popular book of many years ago. The author made millions-and then dropped dead of cancer. So much for his life being difficult. Is there a point to this? Not really...it is just an observation - and has it ever been difficult!!
In these two weeks I decided that, technologically speaking, I must be the kiss of death. After I last posted, I went along to see the chest consultant, Lieske, at the chest hospital. She was surprisingly cordial-and I was very surprised. Maybe she got laid the night before, who knows? She certainly was cheerful! And I was weighed and found that I had put on nearly ten pounds since the whole GP/dietician "she is going to develop osteoporosis" thing. I asked Lieske if I could put that much weight on in one week-and she reminded me that I was taking the noxious ProCal Shots that were prescribed. Yuck.
Those were enough to make anybody really make an effort to increase carbs, fats, sugars-anything to avoid drinking stuff that came in two flavors: bad and worse. The banana has never seen a banana-and the strawberry-well, how nasty can it get? Really nasty is the answer. And-I am one of those unlucky people (most of us, probably) who can just look in the direction of food and gain weight. Honestly-I don't eat sugary stuff because I might just as well put it right on my hips. If they all thought I was much too thin, they weren't looking at my hips, that's for sure!
So-I sat outside in Outpatients, and after I endured being weighed, I leaned over to tie my shoelace-and my IPhone leapt out of my pocket and smashed on the concrete floor. Goodbye, touch screen. Did I ever swear!! Luckily nobody was sitting nearby. I could have cried. I jumped through hoops and risked life and limb to go to the Apple store in Covent Garden on a Saturday morning-now THAT is taking one's life in one's hands, even for an able-bodied person. I felt like a sardine in a tin of sardines-but I went, got my phone, was perfectly happy, and then-bang, wallop, touch screen smashed. So I rang the Orange customer service people and arranged for a replacement.
I was blessed with a lecture on dropping the phone and how it was going to cost me excess, even though I was paying an arm and two legs for insurance. So I complained. And-if you don't ask, you don't get. Remember that. Always make as big a fuss as you can. After I spent about ten minutes telling the person how I think Orange and T-Mobile totally suck, the charge was waived. And Orange and T-Mobile do suck. They merged, called themselves EE (Everything Everywhere), but the masts in my area have been down for five months, making it NN (Nothing Nowhere). So I got my way. Good for me, too.
When I decided to post about the delightful, underwhelming and unedifying week I had-my computer wouldn't work. It gave me the finger. It said that the hard disk had been corrupted. So that is why I said that I am-technologically speaking, of course-the kiss of death. First the phone, now the computer.Eeek.
I did everything. I unplugged. I switched off (and it didn't want to switch off). I did everything but kick the thing, and it still gave me the message that the drive was corrupted. Now I wanted to cry. I didn't -but I certainly wanted to, because I could see having to spend hundreds of pounds on a new laptop. I felt like throwing up. So I went through the week, did all the doctor and exercise stuff, and every time I walked past my laptop I looked at it mournfully, accusingly, balefully-I felt so morose, I cannot tell you. Not that it did any good - because it didn't.
Around the corner is a computer shop, and I went in to ask Jamal, the owner, what could be wrong. I could see him almost rubbing his hands at the thought of how much he could charge me (Jamal is not known for his honesty). He insisted that I bring the machine in, and that he would "only" charge me forty pounds to have a look-he charges sixty-five, but for me he would give me a discount. Sure. I said I would bring it in-I hope he isn't still waiting!!
So-yesterday I had to go back to Stanmore to see the consultant. And during the night (I'm an insomniac-I get the best ideas in the middle of the night), it suddenly occurred to me that I had a plug-in for the new wireless keyboard and wireless mouse. These allow me to see more easily, since my balance and vision have worsened markedly since the first operation in May-and I hadn't unplugged the widget (to use a technical term) from the USB port. Before I left for Stanmore, I unplugged the thing, sent a prayer to the gods of computers and technology-or whoever, or whatever-and wouldn't you know, the computer started and was absolutely fine. And I saved myself what would probably have turned out to be a fortune.
Obviously I am not the technological kiss of death I thought I was. In fact, that wasn't bad. Not at all. It only took me two weeks of muttering and staring disconsolately at the deceased (no longer) laptop to figure it out.
And I am now on a single crutch-yippee. Not only that, but I went for physiotherapy this morning, and I've been told I can return to the gym. I have to start with all the easy stuff (sure. Do I ever do anything the easy way? Not likely). But I can return to something that resembles a normal (ish) life.
And I bought an IPhone cover called a Ballistic cover-lots of rubber, so it should protect the phone even if I drop it out the window. Heh-chance will be a fine thing.
I went to Starbucks yesterday, before I had to go to Stanmore. A little celebratory cappuccino-and a man came up behind me and asked if he could get the door for me. This is England-I rather expected him to slam it on me-but he held it for me, I thanked him, he said I was welcome, and then went on his way. Miracles do happen-even though they happen rarely here.
I've said that it's easier finding hen's teeth than it is to find people who have manner, class, breeding-and intelligence. I've been in this country for so many years, I stand by that (just live here for awhile if you don't believe me. I've seen tailors' dummies with more life and brains than most of the people I encounter here). But- every once in a great while I meet someone who actually is different.
I have a feeling that one day I might even meet a male who has both a penis and a brain. Maybe.
In these two weeks I decided that, technologically speaking, I must be the kiss of death. After I last posted, I went along to see the chest consultant, Lieske, at the chest hospital. She was surprisingly cordial-and I was very surprised. Maybe she got laid the night before, who knows? She certainly was cheerful! And I was weighed and found that I had put on nearly ten pounds since the whole GP/dietician "she is going to develop osteoporosis" thing. I asked Lieske if I could put that much weight on in one week-and she reminded me that I was taking the noxious ProCal Shots that were prescribed. Yuck.
Those were enough to make anybody really make an effort to increase carbs, fats, sugars-anything to avoid drinking stuff that came in two flavors: bad and worse. The banana has never seen a banana-and the strawberry-well, how nasty can it get? Really nasty is the answer. And-I am one of those unlucky people (most of us, probably) who can just look in the direction of food and gain weight. Honestly-I don't eat sugary stuff because I might just as well put it right on my hips. If they all thought I was much too thin, they weren't looking at my hips, that's for sure!
So-I sat outside in Outpatients, and after I endured being weighed, I leaned over to tie my shoelace-and my IPhone leapt out of my pocket and smashed on the concrete floor. Goodbye, touch screen. Did I ever swear!! Luckily nobody was sitting nearby. I could have cried. I jumped through hoops and risked life and limb to go to the Apple store in Covent Garden on a Saturday morning-now THAT is taking one's life in one's hands, even for an able-bodied person. I felt like a sardine in a tin of sardines-but I went, got my phone, was perfectly happy, and then-bang, wallop, touch screen smashed. So I rang the Orange customer service people and arranged for a replacement.
I was blessed with a lecture on dropping the phone and how it was going to cost me excess, even though I was paying an arm and two legs for insurance. So I complained. And-if you don't ask, you don't get. Remember that. Always make as big a fuss as you can. After I spent about ten minutes telling the person how I think Orange and T-Mobile totally suck, the charge was waived. And Orange and T-Mobile do suck. They merged, called themselves EE (Everything Everywhere), but the masts in my area have been down for five months, making it NN (Nothing Nowhere). So I got my way. Good for me, too.
When I decided to post about the delightful, underwhelming and unedifying week I had-my computer wouldn't work. It gave me the finger. It said that the hard disk had been corrupted. So that is why I said that I am-technologically speaking, of course-the kiss of death. First the phone, now the computer.Eeek.
I did everything. I unplugged. I switched off (and it didn't want to switch off). I did everything but kick the thing, and it still gave me the message that the drive was corrupted. Now I wanted to cry. I didn't -but I certainly wanted to, because I could see having to spend hundreds of pounds on a new laptop. I felt like throwing up. So I went through the week, did all the doctor and exercise stuff, and every time I walked past my laptop I looked at it mournfully, accusingly, balefully-I felt so morose, I cannot tell you. Not that it did any good - because it didn't.
Around the corner is a computer shop, and I went in to ask Jamal, the owner, what could be wrong. I could see him almost rubbing his hands at the thought of how much he could charge me (Jamal is not known for his honesty). He insisted that I bring the machine in, and that he would "only" charge me forty pounds to have a look-he charges sixty-five, but for me he would give me a discount. Sure. I said I would bring it in-I hope he isn't still waiting!!
So-yesterday I had to go back to Stanmore to see the consultant. And during the night (I'm an insomniac-I get the best ideas in the middle of the night), it suddenly occurred to me that I had a plug-in for the new wireless keyboard and wireless mouse. These allow me to see more easily, since my balance and vision have worsened markedly since the first operation in May-and I hadn't unplugged the widget (to use a technical term) from the USB port. Before I left for Stanmore, I unplugged the thing, sent a prayer to the gods of computers and technology-or whoever, or whatever-and wouldn't you know, the computer started and was absolutely fine. And I saved myself what would probably have turned out to be a fortune.
Obviously I am not the technological kiss of death I thought I was. In fact, that wasn't bad. Not at all. It only took me two weeks of muttering and staring disconsolately at the deceased (no longer) laptop to figure it out.
And I am now on a single crutch-yippee. Not only that, but I went for physiotherapy this morning, and I've been told I can return to the gym. I have to start with all the easy stuff (sure. Do I ever do anything the easy way? Not likely). But I can return to something that resembles a normal (ish) life.
And I bought an IPhone cover called a Ballistic cover-lots of rubber, so it should protect the phone even if I drop it out the window. Heh-chance will be a fine thing.
I went to Starbucks yesterday, before I had to go to Stanmore. A little celebratory cappuccino-and a man came up behind me and asked if he could get the door for me. This is England-I rather expected him to slam it on me-but he held it for me, I thanked him, he said I was welcome, and then went on his way. Miracles do happen-even though they happen rarely here.
I've said that it's easier finding hen's teeth than it is to find people who have manner, class, breeding-and intelligence. I've been in this country for so many years, I stand by that (just live here for awhile if you don't believe me. I've seen tailors' dummies with more life and brains than most of the people I encounter here). But- every once in a great while I meet someone who actually is different.
I have a feeling that one day I might even meet a male who has both a penis and a brain. Maybe.
Friday, 27 September 2013
Still alive, still kicking (only with one leg, and carefully!)
Nope, not dead yet. In spite of the best efforts of the medical community and the NHS, I am still very much alive!! Clearly, I am just very hard to kill...
I know I haven't been online for two and a bit weeks-and they have been two very difficult weeks, too. After my last post, I had to start physiotherapy at the London branch of the RNOH-at Bolsover Street, so it is much closer to the house. And that went well, although it was difficult and painful. My physio, Ollie, showed me how to use the crutches properly. He said that the people at Stanmore gave me bad information-well, no surprises there, as we now know!!
But-my balance and my eyesight have really deteriorated, and I threw a wobbler last week and nearly ended up under a bus. That was close; someone I knew grabbed me just before I fell. Imagine going through these awful five months, only to be splattered all over the road and have to be scraped up by a spatula. And it wasn't even an upmarket bus, either!!
Ollie said to do my exercises-and I have been doing those, since I don't want to be limping for the rest of my life! He also said I should rest as much as possible, since I need to recover from two operations, not just one. Good point.
And-you will like this (but not a lot): I have to gain weight. Yes, I am just over 100 pounds now-I think I haven't weighed this little since I was 12-but I have been given orders by-well, just about everyone.
On Monday I saw both Margaret (GP) and Coletta, the dietician. They both said that my BMI is far too low, and that is why I am too exhausted to do anything. I asked if I am in danger of going down the plughole along with the bathwater-bad joke, I know, and they thought so, too. So I have to eat more, eat more often, and all that stuff. My friend NJ said I shouldn't expect any sympathy, because most people want to lose weight, not gain it!
Margaret also said that the lighter I am, the greater the chance of developing osteoporosis. That made me very nervous. Imagine - I have a choice. I can stay very thin but have a huge risk of sneezing and breaking a hip-or I can gain a few pounds...hmmm, I need to think about this a bit!
While I am thinking, I am going to risk life and limbs and get out the old crutches and go up the road to Starbucks for a nice big cappuccino. Lots of calories-and I get to people watch, so if I find anything funny (and I usually do), I will report back.
I said I was back last time, and that was a bit premature. But I am really and truly back-even if I do look like a bag of bones!! I might as well enjoy it for as long as it lasts....
I know I haven't been online for two and a bit weeks-and they have been two very difficult weeks, too. After my last post, I had to start physiotherapy at the London branch of the RNOH-at Bolsover Street, so it is much closer to the house. And that went well, although it was difficult and painful. My physio, Ollie, showed me how to use the crutches properly. He said that the people at Stanmore gave me bad information-well, no surprises there, as we now know!!
But-my balance and my eyesight have really deteriorated, and I threw a wobbler last week and nearly ended up under a bus. That was close; someone I knew grabbed me just before I fell. Imagine going through these awful five months, only to be splattered all over the road and have to be scraped up by a spatula. And it wasn't even an upmarket bus, either!!
Ollie said to do my exercises-and I have been doing those, since I don't want to be limping for the rest of my life! He also said I should rest as much as possible, since I need to recover from two operations, not just one. Good point.
And-you will like this (but not a lot): I have to gain weight. Yes, I am just over 100 pounds now-I think I haven't weighed this little since I was 12-but I have been given orders by-well, just about everyone.
On Monday I saw both Margaret (GP) and Coletta, the dietician. They both said that my BMI is far too low, and that is why I am too exhausted to do anything. I asked if I am in danger of going down the plughole along with the bathwater-bad joke, I know, and they thought so, too. So I have to eat more, eat more often, and all that stuff. My friend NJ said I shouldn't expect any sympathy, because most people want to lose weight, not gain it!
Margaret also said that the lighter I am, the greater the chance of developing osteoporosis. That made me very nervous. Imagine - I have a choice. I can stay very thin but have a huge risk of sneezing and breaking a hip-or I can gain a few pounds...hmmm, I need to think about this a bit!
While I am thinking, I am going to risk life and limbs and get out the old crutches and go up the road to Starbucks for a nice big cappuccino. Lots of calories-and I get to people watch, so if I find anything funny (and I usually do), I will report back.
I said I was back last time, and that was a bit premature. But I am really and truly back-even if I do look like a bag of bones!! I might as well enjoy it for as long as it lasts....
Thursday, 12 September 2013
The Good, the Bad, and the bingo wing
Three weeks ago - on Tuesday - I had the surgery. My, doesn't time fly!! And it has been a pretty rough time. In fact, I kept asking myself why I was so nuts as to have such a painful operation so soon after the mastectomy. I just wanted the whole thing to be over, so I don't have to look forward to any surgery in the near future. I am done with surgery!!
The good thing is that the pain level has decreased. I still have pain, but it isn't so excruciating that I sit and cry about it. It's bearable now-and when I do too much walking, or moving around, and the knee swells up, I just rest it and know that it will be fine-eventually.
With the good inevitably seems to come the bad: on Tuesday I saw my neurologist, Dr. Turner (aka Dr. Dimples). He was very late-but all NHS doctors seem to always be late!! We spoke about the knee thing (I am on crutches. We couldn't exactly avoid talking about it!), and the cancer, and he said that it has been a very bad-and stressful- year. No, really? He also said that I probably have made as much progress as I am going to make, given that it has been three years since the initial gentamicin poisoning. I asked him about the setbacks of the past few months-and he advised me to go back to the very first exercises, since my nystagmus has returned and my eyes are moving around of their own accord. He said to just keep doing as much as I can to try to return to where I was before disaster struck earlier in the year. And he will see me in twelve months, at which time he will have to discharge me from the clinic, since-he said-he can't keep me on the books indefinitely. He wants to see if I have made any progress in the next year.
I was so discouraged, I went home and went to bed early. I really didn't feel like talking to anyone, or going online-I know it's been over a week, but severe pain and sleep deprivation kept me from doing much-but this setback was really very painful.
So I thought about everything very seriously yesterday. I thought about the surgeries, the illnesses, the setbacks to my balance and vision-and I decided that it is possible that Dr. Dimples is mistaken. I return to everything I have read about neuroplasticity, new neural pathways, the fact that we just don't have enough information about the brain (yet) to make that kind of hard and fast judgment. So I refuse to quit. I have a year to prove Dimples wrong: I have a year to get back to that all important 80%-more, in fact, if I can do it. It just means that I need to stay healthy. No falling down concrete steps and landing knee first!! I have a replaced kneecap now, and I don't want to have to have a brand new knee to go with it. And-there is no reason I can't stay out of hospitals, providing I do everything I can to keep myself healthy. I need to get back to that optimistic mindset-the one where I refuse to give up, because I know I can do it. I just need to do the work-and I have become pretty lazy, I can tell you!!
And then there are those bingo wings. I have to mention those, because they are the scourge of women everywhere-right up there with fat thighs, hips and backside, muffin tops, bra fat, and, of course, the awful turkey neck!! Is this relevant? Of course it is.
When I first got the crutches I said to a couple of nurses (that was when they were still speaking to me) that at least I would be able to get rid of my bingo wings. They laughed and said that the muscles were the wrong ones. Er...well, yes and no. Can I explain? Well, I thought you would never ask.
Bingo wings are the fatty areas between the armpit and the elbow, and just about every woman I know has them. Some are so large that if someone raised both arms together, she would look like a huge bat. And imagine suddenly raising your arm, having a wing fly out and give some poor innocent bystander a black eye. Try explaining that to the paramedics (or police). Errant bingo wing causes facial damage...whatever. So we all cover up, wearing long sleeves to ensure this never happens-and because it looks terrible. I used to see women at the gym, doing tricep dips until their arms nearly dropped off-and when they were done, they still had those bingo wings. And probably something they ruptured, too.
Why, you ask, is this relevant? Duh?? Because I have found a cure,that's why. It isn't surgery (are there things like bingo wing lifts? Probably). Or hours of daily tricep exercises. Or special creams (rip off!!), or pounding or pummeling. The cure is... crutches. That is what I said: crutches. You read it first here, and you got it for free. How good is that??
I have been on crutches for three weeks, and my arms are developing biceps that are finally bigger than a sparrow's kneecaps...make that a sparrow's elbows, kneecaps are a sore point with me (literally!). But all the shlepping around with crutches, and trying to get it the way the physiotherapists told me (crutches down, then bad leg, then good leg, then crutches, etc), and I have noticed that my bingo wings are shrinking. They were never bat-sized, but they are shrinking. And that is due to the crutches, because I'm not doing anything else.
So there you are. Get some crutches-not the old type that sit in your armpit, but the ones with the plastic thingy (a technical term if there ever was one) that goes around the elbow, keeping the crutches from dropping. And walk. A lot. And lift yourself on the crutches. A lot. And say goodbye to bingo wings and long sleeves.
Let me know how it goes. When those wings are gone, you can take me to lunch. Huh. I should write a book, I would make millions.
And by the way: I'm back....
The good thing is that the pain level has decreased. I still have pain, but it isn't so excruciating that I sit and cry about it. It's bearable now-and when I do too much walking, or moving around, and the knee swells up, I just rest it and know that it will be fine-eventually.
With the good inevitably seems to come the bad: on Tuesday I saw my neurologist, Dr. Turner (aka Dr. Dimples). He was very late-but all NHS doctors seem to always be late!! We spoke about the knee thing (I am on crutches. We couldn't exactly avoid talking about it!), and the cancer, and he said that it has been a very bad-and stressful- year. No, really? He also said that I probably have made as much progress as I am going to make, given that it has been three years since the initial gentamicin poisoning. I asked him about the setbacks of the past few months-and he advised me to go back to the very first exercises, since my nystagmus has returned and my eyes are moving around of their own accord. He said to just keep doing as much as I can to try to return to where I was before disaster struck earlier in the year. And he will see me in twelve months, at which time he will have to discharge me from the clinic, since-he said-he can't keep me on the books indefinitely. He wants to see if I have made any progress in the next year.
I was so discouraged, I went home and went to bed early. I really didn't feel like talking to anyone, or going online-I know it's been over a week, but severe pain and sleep deprivation kept me from doing much-but this setback was really very painful.
So I thought about everything very seriously yesterday. I thought about the surgeries, the illnesses, the setbacks to my balance and vision-and I decided that it is possible that Dr. Dimples is mistaken. I return to everything I have read about neuroplasticity, new neural pathways, the fact that we just don't have enough information about the brain (yet) to make that kind of hard and fast judgment. So I refuse to quit. I have a year to prove Dimples wrong: I have a year to get back to that all important 80%-more, in fact, if I can do it. It just means that I need to stay healthy. No falling down concrete steps and landing knee first!! I have a replaced kneecap now, and I don't want to have to have a brand new knee to go with it. And-there is no reason I can't stay out of hospitals, providing I do everything I can to keep myself healthy. I need to get back to that optimistic mindset-the one where I refuse to give up, because I know I can do it. I just need to do the work-and I have become pretty lazy, I can tell you!!
And then there are those bingo wings. I have to mention those, because they are the scourge of women everywhere-right up there with fat thighs, hips and backside, muffin tops, bra fat, and, of course, the awful turkey neck!! Is this relevant? Of course it is.
When I first got the crutches I said to a couple of nurses (that was when they were still speaking to me) that at least I would be able to get rid of my bingo wings. They laughed and said that the muscles were the wrong ones. Er...well, yes and no. Can I explain? Well, I thought you would never ask.
Bingo wings are the fatty areas between the armpit and the elbow, and just about every woman I know has them. Some are so large that if someone raised both arms together, she would look like a huge bat. And imagine suddenly raising your arm, having a wing fly out and give some poor innocent bystander a black eye. Try explaining that to the paramedics (or police). Errant bingo wing causes facial damage...whatever. So we all cover up, wearing long sleeves to ensure this never happens-and because it looks terrible. I used to see women at the gym, doing tricep dips until their arms nearly dropped off-and when they were done, they still had those bingo wings. And probably something they ruptured, too.
Why, you ask, is this relevant? Duh?? Because I have found a cure,that's why. It isn't surgery (are there things like bingo wing lifts? Probably). Or hours of daily tricep exercises. Or special creams (rip off!!), or pounding or pummeling. The cure is... crutches. That is what I said: crutches. You read it first here, and you got it for free. How good is that??
I have been on crutches for three weeks, and my arms are developing biceps that are finally bigger than a sparrow's kneecaps...make that a sparrow's elbows, kneecaps are a sore point with me (literally!). But all the shlepping around with crutches, and trying to get it the way the physiotherapists told me (crutches down, then bad leg, then good leg, then crutches, etc), and I have noticed that my bingo wings are shrinking. They were never bat-sized, but they are shrinking. And that is due to the crutches, because I'm not doing anything else.
So there you are. Get some crutches-not the old type that sit in your armpit, but the ones with the plastic thingy (a technical term if there ever was one) that goes around the elbow, keeping the crutches from dropping. And walk. A lot. And lift yourself on the crutches. A lot. And say goodbye to bingo wings and long sleeves.
Let me know how it goes. When those wings are gone, you can take me to lunch. Huh. I should write a book, I would make millions.
And by the way: I'm back....
Tuesday, 3 September 2013
oxycodone: drug choice of champions (and me)
Very sorry if you thought I was dead-of course, I'm very glad I'm not dead, but the last two weeks since surgery I thought the pain was going to kill me off.
I went off to surgery two weeks ago (today)-and I just had a sneaky feeling that I wasn't going back to the Newman (private patients) ward. I just had that feeling that I was lied to, just to get me to surgery. And-I was right.
I ended up in Intensive Care for the night-nothing exciting, all surgical patients end up there, so their vital signs can be monitored. I was given oxycodone for the pain-intravenously-and that worked really well. I still felt pain, but I was too sleepy and too out of it to care!!
The next day I was told I was returning to the Angus MacKinnon ward-exactly where I didn't want to go, given the complaints I'd made about the ward, the nurses, the care..so I said no thank you. And the bed manager, Craig, was called in to smooth things over. After about four hours, he came back with an offer: if I would return to MacKinnon, the bathroom would be cleaned, signs put up-and the nurses would see every patient plus visitors to tell them not to use the room because it was reserved for someone who was highly contagious (I love that bit. Would you use a bathroom if that is what you were told? I wouldn't. But read on..).
The nurses didn't pay a blind bit of notice. And this time, they were overtly hostile. After all, I had complained-and named names. So I was told they wouldn't be adhering to this, and that if I wanted a private room I should have gone to a private hospital. I responded by saying that if I got any kind of infection, they would all be held accountable. And I relayed all this to Craig. Happy days.
One nurse offered me a commode (fancy name for bedpan) that I could have in the room; she said they would give me a bowl and I could have a wash that way. I asked if they were going to do this for seven days-I asked what century they were in-and I asked if they were planning on giving me a tent to go with the commode and the bowl-perhaps a camping stove, so I could just move out into the car park? They didn't find that funny, and I let them know I thought they were morons. Not a good way to spend seven days!!
When I got out-finally-on Wednesday night, the nursing sister accompanied the transport ambulance driver -and me- to the exit. I think she wanted to make certain I was really leaving. Nursing sister: that's like a head nurse, but without the pay, the ability, or the brains. Anyway, off I went.
So here I am, and did I put in a formal complaint with everyone of any significance? Come on, is the Pope Catholic? You bet I complained. I think I gave poor Craig an ulcer!
I've continued on the oxycodone since Wednesday-but it doesn't have much of an effect now. So I've been in bed since Wednesday, and I've been too sick and in too much pain to write-or eat-or write nasty emails to anyone!!
But hey, here I am, I'm back....and I'm staying back!! And I still have a lot of the mixed nuts Andy brought me. I can honestly say that I don't want to see another almond, or hazelnut, or brazil nut, or any kind of nut-until Christmas. 2016!
I went off to surgery two weeks ago (today)-and I just had a sneaky feeling that I wasn't going back to the Newman (private patients) ward. I just had that feeling that I was lied to, just to get me to surgery. And-I was right.
I ended up in Intensive Care for the night-nothing exciting, all surgical patients end up there, so their vital signs can be monitored. I was given oxycodone for the pain-intravenously-and that worked really well. I still felt pain, but I was too sleepy and too out of it to care!!
The next day I was told I was returning to the Angus MacKinnon ward-exactly where I didn't want to go, given the complaints I'd made about the ward, the nurses, the care..so I said no thank you. And the bed manager, Craig, was called in to smooth things over. After about four hours, he came back with an offer: if I would return to MacKinnon, the bathroom would be cleaned, signs put up-and the nurses would see every patient plus visitors to tell them not to use the room because it was reserved for someone who was highly contagious (I love that bit. Would you use a bathroom if that is what you were told? I wouldn't. But read on..).
The nurses didn't pay a blind bit of notice. And this time, they were overtly hostile. After all, I had complained-and named names. So I was told they wouldn't be adhering to this, and that if I wanted a private room I should have gone to a private hospital. I responded by saying that if I got any kind of infection, they would all be held accountable. And I relayed all this to Craig. Happy days.
One nurse offered me a commode (fancy name for bedpan) that I could have in the room; she said they would give me a bowl and I could have a wash that way. I asked if they were going to do this for seven days-I asked what century they were in-and I asked if they were planning on giving me a tent to go with the commode and the bowl-perhaps a camping stove, so I could just move out into the car park? They didn't find that funny, and I let them know I thought they were morons. Not a good way to spend seven days!!
When I got out-finally-on Wednesday night, the nursing sister accompanied the transport ambulance driver -and me- to the exit. I think she wanted to make certain I was really leaving. Nursing sister: that's like a head nurse, but without the pay, the ability, or the brains. Anyway, off I went.
So here I am, and did I put in a formal complaint with everyone of any significance? Come on, is the Pope Catholic? You bet I complained. I think I gave poor Craig an ulcer!
I've continued on the oxycodone since Wednesday-but it doesn't have much of an effect now. So I've been in bed since Wednesday, and I've been too sick and in too much pain to write-or eat-or write nasty emails to anyone!!
But hey, here I am, I'm back....and I'm staying back!! And I still have a lot of the mixed nuts Andy brought me. I can honestly say that I don't want to see another almond, or hazelnut, or brazil nut, or any kind of nut-until Christmas. 2016!
Tuesday, 20 August 2013
Some you win, and some you don't-obstinacy is a good thing!!
I was moved out of the room yesterday-but I was moved just across the hall, same private ward. It's a very small, dark room-and things need to be fixed (lights not working, and stuff like that)-but it comes with a small bathroom, and that is the important thing.
A few nurses are walking around with their noses so far in the air, I am surprised they haven't fallen over and knocked themselves unconscious. But I got what I wanted (and needed): a clean, private room that will be safe enough after surgery this afternoon, and I can probably keep the room until I go home.
It pays to be obstinate. It works to be persistent, and not allow yourself to be bullied or intimidated by anyone or anything!! Personally, if members of the staff are rude (they are, very) I don't give a rat's patootie. I'm here for the rest of my stay, courtesy of the NHS. It's about time I got something out of them!!!
I saw Val last night, and Mr. Skinner about an hour ago. I'm still not sure what he is going to do-but I did say that I don't want to go through another operation like this in my lifetime-so when I awaken in recovery later, I will know if he heard me or not. This is the NHS; unless you go private, you don't even know who is doing the surgery. I did ask him if he will do it himself, and he said he would...and, after the gentamicin incident three years ago, I really have trouble trusting anyone in the NHS.
I will be unconscious. For all I know, I could be operated on by a chimpanzee.
I am learning a lot about myself, what I will tolerate and what I won't tolerate-and the latter list is much longer than the former!! I'm not sure if I have age and experience to thank-or cancer-or all three. But I see myself as becoming far more formidable, and I've had enough of taking crap from people. You have to fight for what you know is right...sometimes you succeed, and sometimes you don't - but at least you make the effort.
When they are rude to me here-I just think to myself: aren't you a total ***hole!!! And I smile. Because I won.
Time to get ready for - whatever. I have an arrow drawn on my leg; I suppose they need to remember which one they are operating on!!
A few nurses are walking around with their noses so far in the air, I am surprised they haven't fallen over and knocked themselves unconscious. But I got what I wanted (and needed): a clean, private room that will be safe enough after surgery this afternoon, and I can probably keep the room until I go home.
It pays to be obstinate. It works to be persistent, and not allow yourself to be bullied or intimidated by anyone or anything!! Personally, if members of the staff are rude (they are, very) I don't give a rat's patootie. I'm here for the rest of my stay, courtesy of the NHS. It's about time I got something out of them!!!
I saw Val last night, and Mr. Skinner about an hour ago. I'm still not sure what he is going to do-but I did say that I don't want to go through another operation like this in my lifetime-so when I awaken in recovery later, I will know if he heard me or not. This is the NHS; unless you go private, you don't even know who is doing the surgery. I did ask him if he will do it himself, and he said he would...and, after the gentamicin incident three years ago, I really have trouble trusting anyone in the NHS.
I will be unconscious. For all I know, I could be operated on by a chimpanzee.
I am learning a lot about myself, what I will tolerate and what I won't tolerate-and the latter list is much longer than the former!! I'm not sure if I have age and experience to thank-or cancer-or all three. But I see myself as becoming far more formidable, and I've had enough of taking crap from people. You have to fight for what you know is right...sometimes you succeed, and sometimes you don't - but at least you make the effort.
When they are rude to me here-I just think to myself: aren't you a total ***hole!!! And I smile. Because I won.
Time to get ready for - whatever. I have an arrow drawn on my leg; I suppose they need to remember which one they are operating on!!
Monday, 19 August 2013
Never underestimate the value part 2 (or maybe, part 3)I
Sam just didn't get it. I reminded her that I am the one who is at risk of infection from other people-and that it is not the other way around. But I could see that any logical argument was useless. So- I put in a call to Val Taylor.
Val is Mr. Skinner's anaesthetist. I rang the office and left a message asking that she stop in to see me before going home-if it was possible. Twenty minutes later, one of the nasty nurses came rushing in, demanding to know if I was in pain. The message the ward got was that I had called Val because I was in pain, and the nurse was extremely hostile, because she said that I should have rung the buzzer for medication if I was in pain. I said I hadn't rung to speak with Val for any problems with pain, and that the ward got it wrong. I wanted to see Val for something else. What? she demanded not that it was her business- so I said I'm thinking of cancelling surgery. And Sam came back-and she was furious. We've worked so hard on getting all this done, blah, blah, blah. She kept saying not to worry about it, and left. Easy for her to say don't worry. So I waited for Val.
Val came to see me at 5:30. I told her everything: the attitudes, the nastiness, even the crap service. She said I should be treated the same as everyone else, but reminded me that on the private ward I was going to get that kind of attitude-and asked if food was important. I said it wasn't-but wasn't it interesting the way there were two types of service: one for the paying customers, one for the NHS customers. We had a laugh about that-then got onto the real subject: the room.
I told her that the staff keep telling me that I will be moved out, that I shouldn't be in a private ward. And she excused herself, and said she would be back in a minute. About ten minutes later, Val returned. She had written in my notes-in big letters, she said-that I am not to be moved out of this room before surgery on Tuesday, and if anyone tried to move me, there would be no surgery. Val went on to say that she had tried to contact the administrators, but everyone had gone for the weekend. So-she emailed them, and demanded an answer on Monday (today).
She told them that she wanted me to remain in this room in this ward until I am discharged from the hospital next week. She then went on to say that if I go on a ward and people get pseudomonas, or if I contract an infection in the new knee, the hospital would be in serious legal trouble.
Val is the first one who has been actually in my corner; I could have hugged her. So I said thanks, and told her how much I appreciated her fighting for me, and she said that she would let me know what happens. Then we talked about her daughter, who wants to move to an area of London which is familiar to me, and she left at around 6:30. And I felt that maybe, maybe something would finally work in my favor. Finally.
Saturday I spent six hours in the Intensive Care Unit; I needed to have a whacking big dose of immunoglobulin (intravenously), and I had to go there to have it done. Part of me was afraid they would sell this room while I was gone!! But I remembered what Val said, and I was okay.
I said the dongle doesn't work-and that is why I have been offline for so long. True-but I discovered yesterday (I asked one of the friendly nurses-probably friendly because she was an agency nurse) that there is free internet access for the private patients. Hallelujah!! I may get lousy food, nasty people-but I have a private room and a private bathroom (for now, at least)-and free internet service.
Silver lining!
Mr. Skinner didn't come in this morning - I'm not a private patient, so he isn't obliged to see me until the morning of the surgery: tomorrow. But who did come in? The registrar, Jake-and Sam. We spoke a little about the surgery itself, which will happen around 3pm. Then the two people were going to leave-and Jake asked me if I had any questions.
Who am I? I'm a pushy New Yorker, that is who I am!! I have lived here for more than half my life, but once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. So I said-about the room...And I pushed it. And Sam, bless her (the hubris of youth, I guess) said not to worry. So I snapped don't tell me not to worry. Jake said he heard something about Val going to speak with people, but he said he didn't really want to become involved (excuse me?? Aren't you one of my doctors???).
I stood my ground, and Jake finally said that he would speak with Mr. Skinner and one of them will tell me tomorrow what is going on.
Then I said: I will not go into surgery without knowing exactly where I am going to be when I get out of Intensive Care on Wednesday morning. Don't worry isn't good enough. Don't worry, trust us, blah, blah, blah.
I said-and forcefully-that unless I know where I am going on Wednesday when I return to the ward-and unless I have everyone's assurances (that is, the people in charge), I will cancel surgery.
I told Jake outright that I am not risking my life and my health so the hospital can make money on this room. You don't want to tell me where, and give me the details? Then I am going home.,
And that is non-negotiable.
Fight for your rights. Nobody else will!!
I will let you know what happens tomorrow.
Val is Mr. Skinner's anaesthetist. I rang the office and left a message asking that she stop in to see me before going home-if it was possible. Twenty minutes later, one of the nasty nurses came rushing in, demanding to know if I was in pain. The message the ward got was that I had called Val because I was in pain, and the nurse was extremely hostile, because she said that I should have rung the buzzer for medication if I was in pain. I said I hadn't rung to speak with Val for any problems with pain, and that the ward got it wrong. I wanted to see Val for something else. What? she demanded not that it was her business- so I said I'm thinking of cancelling surgery. And Sam came back-and she was furious. We've worked so hard on getting all this done, blah, blah, blah. She kept saying not to worry about it, and left. Easy for her to say don't worry. So I waited for Val.
Val came to see me at 5:30. I told her everything: the attitudes, the nastiness, even the crap service. She said I should be treated the same as everyone else, but reminded me that on the private ward I was going to get that kind of attitude-and asked if food was important. I said it wasn't-but wasn't it interesting the way there were two types of service: one for the paying customers, one for the NHS customers. We had a laugh about that-then got onto the real subject: the room.
I told her that the staff keep telling me that I will be moved out, that I shouldn't be in a private ward. And she excused herself, and said she would be back in a minute. About ten minutes later, Val returned. She had written in my notes-in big letters, she said-that I am not to be moved out of this room before surgery on Tuesday, and if anyone tried to move me, there would be no surgery. Val went on to say that she had tried to contact the administrators, but everyone had gone for the weekend. So-she emailed them, and demanded an answer on Monday (today).
She told them that she wanted me to remain in this room in this ward until I am discharged from the hospital next week. She then went on to say that if I go on a ward and people get pseudomonas, or if I contract an infection in the new knee, the hospital would be in serious legal trouble.
Val is the first one who has been actually in my corner; I could have hugged her. So I said thanks, and told her how much I appreciated her fighting for me, and she said that she would let me know what happens. Then we talked about her daughter, who wants to move to an area of London which is familiar to me, and she left at around 6:30. And I felt that maybe, maybe something would finally work in my favor. Finally.
Saturday I spent six hours in the Intensive Care Unit; I needed to have a whacking big dose of immunoglobulin (intravenously), and I had to go there to have it done. Part of me was afraid they would sell this room while I was gone!! But I remembered what Val said, and I was okay.
I said the dongle doesn't work-and that is why I have been offline for so long. True-but I discovered yesterday (I asked one of the friendly nurses-probably friendly because she was an agency nurse) that there is free internet access for the private patients. Hallelujah!! I may get lousy food, nasty people-but I have a private room and a private bathroom (for now, at least)-and free internet service.
Silver lining!
Mr. Skinner didn't come in this morning - I'm not a private patient, so he isn't obliged to see me until the morning of the surgery: tomorrow. But who did come in? The registrar, Jake-and Sam. We spoke a little about the surgery itself, which will happen around 3pm. Then the two people were going to leave-and Jake asked me if I had any questions.
Who am I? I'm a pushy New Yorker, that is who I am!! I have lived here for more than half my life, but once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. So I said-about the room...And I pushed it. And Sam, bless her (the hubris of youth, I guess) said not to worry. So I snapped don't tell me not to worry. Jake said he heard something about Val going to speak with people, but he said he didn't really want to become involved (excuse me?? Aren't you one of my doctors???).
I stood my ground, and Jake finally said that he would speak with Mr. Skinner and one of them will tell me tomorrow what is going on.
Then I said: I will not go into surgery without knowing exactly where I am going to be when I get out of Intensive Care on Wednesday morning. Don't worry isn't good enough. Don't worry, trust us, blah, blah, blah.
I said-and forcefully-that unless I know where I am going on Wednesday when I return to the ward-and unless I have everyone's assurances (that is, the people in charge), I will cancel surgery.
I told Jake outright that I am not risking my life and my health so the hospital can make money on this room. You don't want to tell me where, and give me the details? Then I am going home.,
And that is non-negotiable.
Fight for your rights. Nobody else will!!
I will let you know what happens tomorrow.
Never underestimate the value of fighting for your rights-whatever it takes!
It pays to be pushy. It pays to fight for your rights-when it comes to your health, your life, you just have to fight. I suppose you also need to know when you won't win, and when to walk away. This time, I didn't walk away.
On Friday, I wanted to go outside the ward and practice using my crutches. I know I need to keep walking-not only to strengthen my legs for the operation (which is tomorrow. Yikes!!!!), but because neuroplasticity only works on the balance if I keep walking and challenge my brain to make those all-important neural pathways. So I walk. Or-I did. A very nasty nurse told me that I was banned from leaving my room.
What?? I said that I had been walking outside the hospital when I was on the other (Mackinnon) ward. So what was the problem? She said that I am an NHS patient, and the only reason I was moved to the private Newman ward was because it was unsafe for me to be out of the room. So back to the room I went-fuming. And I said that was ridiculous-I also said there is no need to be so nasty.
Then-a nurse came in and said I would probably be moved to another ward after the surgery, if not before. And I went ballistic. This was where the fun really started. I will keep it brief (ish).
I went back and forth with the junior doctor-Sam-who is, I suppose, the equivalent of an intern. The registrar had gone home, having torn the ligaments in his ankle by running and falling over (obviously I am not the only klutz in the neighbourhood!). Sam finally told me that she had spoken with the bed manager, and he told her that private patients came first, and that if a private patient came in and needed the room, I would have to return to a normal (NHS) ward.Hah!
I said -somewhat sarcastically-that I understand that the hospital is only interested in money, but my concern is my life and my physical safety. Sam said-somewhat nonchalantly-that even if I had to return to another ward, the bathroom would be clean. I said-like the MacKinnon ward was clean? Sam is very impatient and somewhat fraught-she said I would be okay, then left the room.
I stewed over this for about half an hour, then rang the nurse and told her I wanted her to page Sam. She asked why. I said I am considering cancelling the surgery. Half an hour later, Sam stormed into the room. She proceeded to inform me that everyone had worked very hard to organize the rooms, the surgery, everything. She said I would be okay, even if they had to move me. I repeated-several times-that my health is too important for me to take any risks. Again, back and forth, and she finally snapped that she was being bleeped constantly and that she had many other patients to see. She repeated that if I had to leave the room, I would be fine. She then said that doctors are not the most powerful people in the hospital; administrators have all the power. Then she left.
What did I do next? And here come the doctors-so I will have to continue this shortly.
On Friday, I wanted to go outside the ward and practice using my crutches. I know I need to keep walking-not only to strengthen my legs for the operation (which is tomorrow. Yikes!!!!), but because neuroplasticity only works on the balance if I keep walking and challenge my brain to make those all-important neural pathways. So I walk. Or-I did. A very nasty nurse told me that I was banned from leaving my room.
What?? I said that I had been walking outside the hospital when I was on the other (Mackinnon) ward. So what was the problem? She said that I am an NHS patient, and the only reason I was moved to the private Newman ward was because it was unsafe for me to be out of the room. So back to the room I went-fuming. And I said that was ridiculous-I also said there is no need to be so nasty.
Then-a nurse came in and said I would probably be moved to another ward after the surgery, if not before. And I went ballistic. This was where the fun really started. I will keep it brief (ish).
I went back and forth with the junior doctor-Sam-who is, I suppose, the equivalent of an intern. The registrar had gone home, having torn the ligaments in his ankle by running and falling over (obviously I am not the only klutz in the neighbourhood!). Sam finally told me that she had spoken with the bed manager, and he told her that private patients came first, and that if a private patient came in and needed the room, I would have to return to a normal (NHS) ward.Hah!
I said -somewhat sarcastically-that I understand that the hospital is only interested in money, but my concern is my life and my physical safety. Sam said-somewhat nonchalantly-that even if I had to return to another ward, the bathroom would be clean. I said-like the MacKinnon ward was clean? Sam is very impatient and somewhat fraught-she said I would be okay, then left the room.
I stewed over this for about half an hour, then rang the nurse and told her I wanted her to page Sam. She asked why. I said I am considering cancelling the surgery. Half an hour later, Sam stormed into the room. She proceeded to inform me that everyone had worked very hard to organize the rooms, the surgery, everything. She said I would be okay, even if they had to move me. I repeated-several times-that my health is too important for me to take any risks. Again, back and forth, and she finally snapped that she was being bleeped constantly and that she had many other patients to see. She repeated that if I had to leave the room, I would be fine. She then said that doctors are not the most powerful people in the hospital; administrators have all the power. Then she left.
What did I do next? And here come the doctors-so I will have to continue this shortly.
Sunday, 18 August 2013
If it ain't broke, don't fix it-and if it is...tough
I have been among the missing-and silent!-for two weeks. Bummer. I wanted to write, but got to the hospital and discovered that the T Mobile dongle doesn't work. So I will be returning it when I get home-as soon as I can walk, that is!!
Where am I? In the hospital-where else? After the twisted pervert park incident, I had to spend the rest of the week getting ready to go into the RNOH (Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital) on the Friday. My friend was due to come down on Thursday, so I didn't have a lot of time. I found myself rushing around like the proverbial blue assed fly-and still didn't accomplish anything, really. This means I finally learned the cost of procrastination.
I did say once that I am the procrastination queen...and, after all these years of panic, anxiety and stress, I finally am beginning to realize how much that has cost me. Between cancer (serious) and the knee (major, but just hideously painful - with a long recovery period), I've had the golden opportunity to reassess my life - and I don't really like what I see. So...when I get out of the hospital and I've recovered enough, I will be an ex-procrastinator!! I am determined; I need to dump all that stress.
Ah, stress...there is nothing like it. I came into the hospital on Friday, and had to sit and wait in the admissions lounge for five and a half hours before the room was ready. Apparently the current occupant wanted to have lunch and a shower before she left! That was, indeed, an omen: a sign of things to come. By the time I reached the ward, I was tired and grumpy-and discovered later that nobody in admissions (regardless of my request) had told my team I was there. They said they'd informed them-but they hadn't. So-no PICC line until Monday. And that was really, really annoying.
What was worse was the fact that, although I had a very small side room, there was no bathroom attached to it. I had to share. So, I went into action: I complained. Vigorously. And loudly. And I kept complaining until the nurses assigned a small toilet/shower room (on Monday, finally). A sign was put on the door, telling everyone that the room was only for room 14, and that for health and safety reasons, nobody else should use it. Not only did everyone carry on and use it, some people left little presents on the floor just to let everyone know they were using it! Nice. They also missed the bowl. So I had to watch where I stepped when I went in, and I went in armed with alcohol wipes.
The whole admission was a total disaster, in my view. I had to explain to every nurse and every nursing shift-and to many doctors who came into the room (I was a curiosity by this time), about CVID: what it stood for, that it is genetic, that I was born with defective genes, that I am not contagious, but everyone else is - especially anyone who is sick, even with the common cold.
I spent so much time talking medical history and CVID, I wish I'd just made a recording of it!! But I didn't really mind: 1 out of every 50,000 (20 out of every million) people is born with the condition, so it is reasonably rare. I even had to correct one of the baby doctors; she called it a disease, I said it is not a disease, but a hereditary condition. I made a lot of friends in the first week (not a bit sarcastic, am I? LOL).
I was poked, and prodded and irradiated, and on Wednesday afternoon, a nurse came in and said I was going to be moved into a private room-that was the rumor, anyway. So I packed. I was ready. Then at around 5:30, it was official-or so I thought. I was moving to the private patients unit. So I waited. And waited. And waited. And I kept pestering the staff to find out what was going on: nobody knew anything. No surprise there!! I felt horribly disappointed, distressed, and depressed. The thought of staying where I was, the risk of infection- too much.
Thursday morning a nurse came in and told me I was to be moved into the private unit-hooray!! But I didn't want to feel the way I'd felt the night before, so I just thought I would wait and see.
Bottom line? I moved into one of the two private patient wards, just down the corridor from the old NHS one. That was around 11:00. It is a lovely room (for a hospital, that is) with a private bathroom. I immediately relaxed; I felt safe for the first time in a week. And here is where it gets interesting.
On Thursday, the staff couldn't do enough for me. The catering staff came in the room with a pot of tea (a china pot), nice cups, nice cutlery, nicely presented. Then lunch arrived, and, again, it was nicely presented-and the food wasn't bad. I was treated as if I was one of the patients whose bills are paid by their insurance company (most private patients have private insurance; only a few have the big bucks needed to self-finance these rooms). Then someone let the staff know I was NHS-and everything changed.
There is a huge divide between the service provided to private patients and NHS patients. Catering staff-and cleaning staff-who are unskilled labor and probably earning no more than minimum wage, practically bow and curtsy to a private patient (just in case someone has the money to be self-financing), but NHS patients are treated like dirt. And that is the sad but absolute truth. And I am not dreaming this, I have seen it firsthand-on the receiving end.
I was told I had to choose meals from the NHS menu. Even though they are cooked in the ward kitchen, the quality and presentation deteriorated markedly-as did the service. I was served last, and always with a smirk and a bit of hostility: I am, after all, an NHS patient. So, yesterday, when a server was particularly rude, I said to him: "I might be a lowly, worthless NHS patient, but at least I have manners". He didn't know what to say, so he left the room.
And there is more. In fact, it gets both worse - and better. And my consultant, Mr. Skinner, is about to come onto the ward, so I will stop for the moment and get back to this later; perhaps I will have even better (or worse!) news for you by then.
I will preface all the rest by saying: it pays to fight for your rights. And I do mean fight. And that is exactly what I did!!
More to come.
Where am I? In the hospital-where else? After the twisted pervert park incident, I had to spend the rest of the week getting ready to go into the RNOH (Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital) on the Friday. My friend was due to come down on Thursday, so I didn't have a lot of time. I found myself rushing around like the proverbial blue assed fly-and still didn't accomplish anything, really. This means I finally learned the cost of procrastination.
I did say once that I am the procrastination queen...and, after all these years of panic, anxiety and stress, I finally am beginning to realize how much that has cost me. Between cancer (serious) and the knee (major, but just hideously painful - with a long recovery period), I've had the golden opportunity to reassess my life - and I don't really like what I see. So...when I get out of the hospital and I've recovered enough, I will be an ex-procrastinator!! I am determined; I need to dump all that stress.
Ah, stress...there is nothing like it. I came into the hospital on Friday, and had to sit and wait in the admissions lounge for five and a half hours before the room was ready. Apparently the current occupant wanted to have lunch and a shower before she left! That was, indeed, an omen: a sign of things to come. By the time I reached the ward, I was tired and grumpy-and discovered later that nobody in admissions (regardless of my request) had told my team I was there. They said they'd informed them-but they hadn't. So-no PICC line until Monday. And that was really, really annoying.
What was worse was the fact that, although I had a very small side room, there was no bathroom attached to it. I had to share. So, I went into action: I complained. Vigorously. And loudly. And I kept complaining until the nurses assigned a small toilet/shower room (on Monday, finally). A sign was put on the door, telling everyone that the room was only for room 14, and that for health and safety reasons, nobody else should use it. Not only did everyone carry on and use it, some people left little presents on the floor just to let everyone know they were using it! Nice. They also missed the bowl. So I had to watch where I stepped when I went in, and I went in armed with alcohol wipes.
The whole admission was a total disaster, in my view. I had to explain to every nurse and every nursing shift-and to many doctors who came into the room (I was a curiosity by this time), about CVID: what it stood for, that it is genetic, that I was born with defective genes, that I am not contagious, but everyone else is - especially anyone who is sick, even with the common cold.
I spent so much time talking medical history and CVID, I wish I'd just made a recording of it!! But I didn't really mind: 1 out of every 50,000 (20 out of every million) people is born with the condition, so it is reasonably rare. I even had to correct one of the baby doctors; she called it a disease, I said it is not a disease, but a hereditary condition. I made a lot of friends in the first week (not a bit sarcastic, am I? LOL).
I was poked, and prodded and irradiated, and on Wednesday afternoon, a nurse came in and said I was going to be moved into a private room-that was the rumor, anyway. So I packed. I was ready. Then at around 5:30, it was official-or so I thought. I was moving to the private patients unit. So I waited. And waited. And waited. And I kept pestering the staff to find out what was going on: nobody knew anything. No surprise there!! I felt horribly disappointed, distressed, and depressed. The thought of staying where I was, the risk of infection- too much.
Thursday morning a nurse came in and told me I was to be moved into the private unit-hooray!! But I didn't want to feel the way I'd felt the night before, so I just thought I would wait and see.
Bottom line? I moved into one of the two private patient wards, just down the corridor from the old NHS one. That was around 11:00. It is a lovely room (for a hospital, that is) with a private bathroom. I immediately relaxed; I felt safe for the first time in a week. And here is where it gets interesting.
On Thursday, the staff couldn't do enough for me. The catering staff came in the room with a pot of tea (a china pot), nice cups, nice cutlery, nicely presented. Then lunch arrived, and, again, it was nicely presented-and the food wasn't bad. I was treated as if I was one of the patients whose bills are paid by their insurance company (most private patients have private insurance; only a few have the big bucks needed to self-finance these rooms). Then someone let the staff know I was NHS-and everything changed.
There is a huge divide between the service provided to private patients and NHS patients. Catering staff-and cleaning staff-who are unskilled labor and probably earning no more than minimum wage, practically bow and curtsy to a private patient (just in case someone has the money to be self-financing), but NHS patients are treated like dirt. And that is the sad but absolute truth. And I am not dreaming this, I have seen it firsthand-on the receiving end.
I was told I had to choose meals from the NHS menu. Even though they are cooked in the ward kitchen, the quality and presentation deteriorated markedly-as did the service. I was served last, and always with a smirk and a bit of hostility: I am, after all, an NHS patient. So, yesterday, when a server was particularly rude, I said to him: "I might be a lowly, worthless NHS patient, but at least I have manners". He didn't know what to say, so he left the room.
And there is more. In fact, it gets both worse - and better. And my consultant, Mr. Skinner, is about to come onto the ward, so I will stop for the moment and get back to this later; perhaps I will have even better (or worse!) news for you by then.
I will preface all the rest by saying: it pays to fight for your rights. And I do mean fight. And that is exactly what I did!!
More to come.
Monday, 5 August 2013
From strange to weird to downright sick, perverted and dangerous
What a week!! Thursday was just about the hottest day of the year so far-and, at the risk of sounding like I have the English disease of constantly moaning about the weather, it was a scorcher! It was in the 90s, and you could have stuck a skewer through me, put me over the road (who needed a fire??), basted me, kept turning until I was done, put an apple in my mouth-and got stuck in. Yum-if you are that way inclined (I'm not, I'm glad to say!!). You get the idea.
Thursday marked ten weeks since my surgery-and I look back and I admit to being happy and relieved that it is now and not ten weeks ago. I would not want to undergo that level of pain (and uncertainty)again. Ever. So I marked the occasion by going to see a psychic. That is the strange and weird part-and I will get back to it in a little bit. There are still more days to cover!!
On Friday afternoon, I went to the hospital to pick up my prostheses, which had just arrived. I call them my "bra stuffers"-because that is exactly what they are. I needed to buy two mastectomy bras so it looks like I actually have a normal chest (mastectomy bras have little pockets for the prostheses so they don't fall out when you bend over. That would be embarrassing!!). So that was an okay day. Once I get over the nasty side effects of the Tamoxifen (hopefully soon), I will have more energy and fewer bouts of hot flushes-so days are okay, but not great. Still, it beats having cancer!!
And this brings us to yesterday (I will get back to Thursday, but not yet. This you need to hear).
Yesterday I decided to go to the Unitarian Church-I will not be able to go for awhile, since I am in the hospital next week, and I will be on crutches for awhile. So I thought I would go and say hello (and goodbye) to people. And-I went a bit early so I could stop for a coffee before the service.
It was nice and quiet, and only 9:30 in the morning, so I thought I would take my coffee into Highbury Park, which was on my way to church. I sat on a bench, minding my own business and enjoying the peace and quiet-and I'll bet you can guess what happened next: sick, perverted and downright dangerous. If you guessed that, right you are-and I didn't think of it at the time, or I would never have sat on my own in the park in such a dodgy area.
I was in mid-swallow, as it were, and this black man rolled up on his bike, stopped in front of me, looked me over, and asked directions to the underground station. I gave him the directions, and he started telling me that I looked "nice", and that he likes older women-especially older white women (his words). How old are you? he asked. I replied it's none of your business. Then he started. Are you married? Yes, I said-now leave me alone, I'm not interested.
He then proceeded to expose himself, telling me that he could make me very satisfied. I told him he's disgusting, and said to put it away, I didn't want him. He kept on, and waved it my way...so I got up and started to leave. I wanted to tell him to f*** off, and make fun of him-but I realized that there was nobody around, I was on a walking stick, this man (maybe in his early 30s, whatever-old enough to know better) could knock me to the ground and I was too fragile to defend myself...and, add to that, the guy was most definitely a sick pervert and potentially dangerous. Definitely a perv and nutter, and I wanted to escape as quickly as I could. So I used my stick and strode purposefully to the exit, alert to the fact that he could come up behind me. He kept calling for me to come back, and kept asking my name. I just kept going-and in about two minutes I was crossing the road. I only looked back when a bus rolled past me and I was about 100 yards from the entrance to the park. He wasn't to be found-thankfully.
That could have been a really dangerous encounter. He could have been on drugs, could have been psychotic-he could have had friends with him, and I would have had no chance. I just withered at him, stood up and walked away-the best thing I could have done, in my view. Actually, the best thing I could have done would have been to drink my coffee while walking down the road and avoiding the solitary park altogether. I won't make that mistake again-but then, I won't be able to get to church for at least six weeks (the next three will be spent in the hospital. Hopefully there won't be pervs in there, too!!!
I didn't say anything to anyone at church about what happened. There was no point, after all. So I hope this week gets better; what a way to start a week!!!!
And that brings me back to Thursday and the psychic. I used to date a man who was a medium-or so he said. He was just an idiot. Not a psychic, or a medium: an idiot. Obviously that was a glitch in my relationship resume, and it didn't last long. But he did introduce me to some psychics-most of whom got nothing right at all. So when it came to seeing this man, I was doubtful-but I went anyway, just to see if he got anything at all. Surprisingly, he did.
Bill said he had my mother there... a few people who didn't ring any bells at all, got my love for animals...it was interesting, because there were some hits among the misses-but a lot of misses. He was telling me I love gardening (eeek-not in a million years), and that I like to sing (that part is true), and that I love hymns (whaaat??) and have a fascination for nuns (pardon??). But he did get parts of my personality spot on- and picked up on the cancer (I hadn't told him) and that I will be having more surgery (I hadn't told him that, either). It was an interesting experience-especially when he asked if my cousin (I actually gave his name and asked Bill if he picked up on anything) had died of very bad chest or heart pain. My cousin was a soldier who died by being shot in the chest-and there was no way he would have known that, so I found that was - shall we say, different?
I'm glad I decided to go to see Bill-and I might go again at some point, to see what else he picks up. He also said I should be doing what he's doing...altogether a somewhat rewarding visit, I think!!
And this week I need to get ready to go into the hospital, and to finish getting my place ready for my friend's arrival on Thursday. I'm nervous. I'm apprehensive. I got over one nasty surgery only to have another-although this one is elective, and the last one came as a big surprise!! My computer will be coming with me, so I will be blogging while I'm there (not like there will be anything else to do until they operate), and hopefully I won't be bothered by another set of nutters. I've seen off enough nutters!
I suppose it's asking too much to just have a quiet life!!
Thursday marked ten weeks since my surgery-and I look back and I admit to being happy and relieved that it is now and not ten weeks ago. I would not want to undergo that level of pain (and uncertainty)again. Ever. So I marked the occasion by going to see a psychic. That is the strange and weird part-and I will get back to it in a little bit. There are still more days to cover!!
On Friday afternoon, I went to the hospital to pick up my prostheses, which had just arrived. I call them my "bra stuffers"-because that is exactly what they are. I needed to buy two mastectomy bras so it looks like I actually have a normal chest (mastectomy bras have little pockets for the prostheses so they don't fall out when you bend over. That would be embarrassing!!). So that was an okay day. Once I get over the nasty side effects of the Tamoxifen (hopefully soon), I will have more energy and fewer bouts of hot flushes-so days are okay, but not great. Still, it beats having cancer!!
And this brings us to yesterday (I will get back to Thursday, but not yet. This you need to hear).
Yesterday I decided to go to the Unitarian Church-I will not be able to go for awhile, since I am in the hospital next week, and I will be on crutches for awhile. So I thought I would go and say hello (and goodbye) to people. And-I went a bit early so I could stop for a coffee before the service.
It was nice and quiet, and only 9:30 in the morning, so I thought I would take my coffee into Highbury Park, which was on my way to church. I sat on a bench, minding my own business and enjoying the peace and quiet-and I'll bet you can guess what happened next: sick, perverted and downright dangerous. If you guessed that, right you are-and I didn't think of it at the time, or I would never have sat on my own in the park in such a dodgy area.
I was in mid-swallow, as it were, and this black man rolled up on his bike, stopped in front of me, looked me over, and asked directions to the underground station. I gave him the directions, and he started telling me that I looked "nice", and that he likes older women-especially older white women (his words). How old are you? he asked. I replied it's none of your business. Then he started. Are you married? Yes, I said-now leave me alone, I'm not interested.
He then proceeded to expose himself, telling me that he could make me very satisfied. I told him he's disgusting, and said to put it away, I didn't want him. He kept on, and waved it my way...so I got up and started to leave. I wanted to tell him to f*** off, and make fun of him-but I realized that there was nobody around, I was on a walking stick, this man (maybe in his early 30s, whatever-old enough to know better) could knock me to the ground and I was too fragile to defend myself...and, add to that, the guy was most definitely a sick pervert and potentially dangerous. Definitely a perv and nutter, and I wanted to escape as quickly as I could. So I used my stick and strode purposefully to the exit, alert to the fact that he could come up behind me. He kept calling for me to come back, and kept asking my name. I just kept going-and in about two minutes I was crossing the road. I only looked back when a bus rolled past me and I was about 100 yards from the entrance to the park. He wasn't to be found-thankfully.
That could have been a really dangerous encounter. He could have been on drugs, could have been psychotic-he could have had friends with him, and I would have had no chance. I just withered at him, stood up and walked away-the best thing I could have done, in my view. Actually, the best thing I could have done would have been to drink my coffee while walking down the road and avoiding the solitary park altogether. I won't make that mistake again-but then, I won't be able to get to church for at least six weeks (the next three will be spent in the hospital. Hopefully there won't be pervs in there, too!!!
I didn't say anything to anyone at church about what happened. There was no point, after all. So I hope this week gets better; what a way to start a week!!!!
And that brings me back to Thursday and the psychic. I used to date a man who was a medium-or so he said. He was just an idiot. Not a psychic, or a medium: an idiot. Obviously that was a glitch in my relationship resume, and it didn't last long. But he did introduce me to some psychics-most of whom got nothing right at all. So when it came to seeing this man, I was doubtful-but I went anyway, just to see if he got anything at all. Surprisingly, he did.
Bill said he had my mother there... a few people who didn't ring any bells at all, got my love for animals...it was interesting, because there were some hits among the misses-but a lot of misses. He was telling me I love gardening (eeek-not in a million years), and that I like to sing (that part is true), and that I love hymns (whaaat??) and have a fascination for nuns (pardon??). But he did get parts of my personality spot on- and picked up on the cancer (I hadn't told him) and that I will be having more surgery (I hadn't told him that, either). It was an interesting experience-especially when he asked if my cousin (I actually gave his name and asked Bill if he picked up on anything) had died of very bad chest or heart pain. My cousin was a soldier who died by being shot in the chest-and there was no way he would have known that, so I found that was - shall we say, different?
I'm glad I decided to go to see Bill-and I might go again at some point, to see what else he picks up. He also said I should be doing what he's doing...altogether a somewhat rewarding visit, I think!!
And this week I need to get ready to go into the hospital, and to finish getting my place ready for my friend's arrival on Thursday. I'm nervous. I'm apprehensive. I got over one nasty surgery only to have another-although this one is elective, and the last one came as a big surprise!! My computer will be coming with me, so I will be blogging while I'm there (not like there will be anything else to do until they operate), and hopefully I won't be bothered by another set of nutters. I've seen off enough nutters!
I suppose it's asking too much to just have a quiet life!!
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
That was the week that was...and wasn't
I haven't died yet. I have melted, wilted, and left puddles of sweat all over London-but I haven't died. Pretty good, I'd say-except for the sweat.
This is the first time since I started this blog that I have taken so long to write-I've missed it, too. But the last 11 or 12 days have been a bit tough. And I seem to have developed the British disease-not the rude, obnoxious braindead stuff, thank goodness, but the irresistible need to bang on constantly about the weather. It's always the weather-or football-everyone seems preoccupied with one or the other. Go figure. And everyone I know back home will laugh when I say that it has been a brutal two weeks, because it has been in the upper 80s-and 90s-and that is unheard of here. People can tell you when we had a real summer: 1976, way before I got here, and 2006 (very hot). I said to someone the other day that in 2025 everyone will be saying "do you remember the summer of 2013?". Funny. Boring, but funny.
Add to all this that I never tan. I stopped looking at people's chests-a good thing, because I'm not a perv, I just looked and felt a bit envious-but I have noticed people with huge boobs and huge stomachs-and that's just the men!! Some look like they have swallowed not only the football, but the whole team. It's amazing how sunlight and heat create creepiness...and I do not tan. I turn the color of beetroot, suffer (never in silence, are you kidding?), then peel...and then I revert back to being so pale that I look like I am ready for embalming. Ewww...there is no justice.
Well, I dropped myself in the pile of poo this week-in a big way. And, between the Tamoxifen's side effects and the heat, all I did was what was absolutely necessary: the doctors, the dentist, pre-admission tests at the orthopaedic hospital (I go in at the end of next week), and getting the house ready for my friend to have her holiday from cats, children and her family. She gets to clean and cook, but also to shop and go to museums. A good deal for both of us...
I dropped myself in it because I am indirectly responsible for Andy (the minister) sacking David (he of the let's do a mastectomy film and put it on YouTube) as pastoral associate. Apparently, David had guidelines he was supposed to follow-and he ignored them. Add to this the fact that, when he was visiting, he spent all his time telling me about his depression, suicidal tendencies, and bipolar disorder-for which he takes no medication. So Andy said, that is it, no more. I think he's right to sack the man (it was a voluntary job, unpaid) . Now David is threatening to sue Andy for defamation, and he tells me that I am responsible, and he is spreading the most incredibly nasty (and untrue) stories to anyone who will listen. I had the misfortune to take a call from David last week, and he was very threatening-I advised him (forcefully, I might add) to abandon his vicious and sick vendetta...but he won't do that. Instead, he wants his ten pints of blood. If he can't get Andy's-mine will do.
I think this experience has finally taught me about the value of setting boundaries. My ex-husband used to say that if there was one nutcase in all of London, he would find me (I did remind him that I married him, and that didn't go down very well...but I knew what he meant). Is it empathy? Sympathy? Compassion? Total stupidity? Perhaps a bit of all of the above.
Now I just shut up, and I don't offer sympathy to anyone. Just-shut up, keep my head down, and keep my radar topped up so that if I see a wacko I don't get tempted to be sympathetic. Instead, I will give in to the temptation to run a mile-in the opposite direction!!
There will always be people around who have lost their marbles. The trick is to recognize them-and to run like Hell!!!
Anyway, I'm back. I should probably invest in a mask...
This is the first time since I started this blog that I have taken so long to write-I've missed it, too. But the last 11 or 12 days have been a bit tough. And I seem to have developed the British disease-not the rude, obnoxious braindead stuff, thank goodness, but the irresistible need to bang on constantly about the weather. It's always the weather-or football-everyone seems preoccupied with one or the other. Go figure. And everyone I know back home will laugh when I say that it has been a brutal two weeks, because it has been in the upper 80s-and 90s-and that is unheard of here. People can tell you when we had a real summer: 1976, way before I got here, and 2006 (very hot). I said to someone the other day that in 2025 everyone will be saying "do you remember the summer of 2013?". Funny. Boring, but funny.
Add to all this that I never tan. I stopped looking at people's chests-a good thing, because I'm not a perv, I just looked and felt a bit envious-but I have noticed people with huge boobs and huge stomachs-and that's just the men!! Some look like they have swallowed not only the football, but the whole team. It's amazing how sunlight and heat create creepiness...and I do not tan. I turn the color of beetroot, suffer (never in silence, are you kidding?), then peel...and then I revert back to being so pale that I look like I am ready for embalming. Ewww...there is no justice.
Well, I dropped myself in the pile of poo this week-in a big way. And, between the Tamoxifen's side effects and the heat, all I did was what was absolutely necessary: the doctors, the dentist, pre-admission tests at the orthopaedic hospital (I go in at the end of next week), and getting the house ready for my friend to have her holiday from cats, children and her family. She gets to clean and cook, but also to shop and go to museums. A good deal for both of us...
I dropped myself in it because I am indirectly responsible for Andy (the minister) sacking David (he of the let's do a mastectomy film and put it on YouTube) as pastoral associate. Apparently, David had guidelines he was supposed to follow-and he ignored them. Add to this the fact that, when he was visiting, he spent all his time telling me about his depression, suicidal tendencies, and bipolar disorder-for which he takes no medication. So Andy said, that is it, no more. I think he's right to sack the man (it was a voluntary job, unpaid) . Now David is threatening to sue Andy for defamation, and he tells me that I am responsible, and he is spreading the most incredibly nasty (and untrue) stories to anyone who will listen. I had the misfortune to take a call from David last week, and he was very threatening-I advised him (forcefully, I might add) to abandon his vicious and sick vendetta...but he won't do that. Instead, he wants his ten pints of blood. If he can't get Andy's-mine will do.
I think this experience has finally taught me about the value of setting boundaries. My ex-husband used to say that if there was one nutcase in all of London, he would find me (I did remind him that I married him, and that didn't go down very well...but I knew what he meant). Is it empathy? Sympathy? Compassion? Total stupidity? Perhaps a bit of all of the above.
Now I just shut up, and I don't offer sympathy to anyone. Just-shut up, keep my head down, and keep my radar topped up so that if I see a wacko I don't get tempted to be sympathetic. Instead, I will give in to the temptation to run a mile-in the opposite direction!!
There will always be people around who have lost their marbles. The trick is to recognize them-and to run like Hell!!!
Anyway, I'm back. I should probably invest in a mask...
Friday, 19 July 2013
And another thing-of vital importance
It's only vitally important if you are a Star Trek fan.
Tomorrow at the Unitarian Church in Islington a group of Star Trek fans (including Reverend Andy, and you would never find that with the Baptists, would you?) are gathering to watch old episodes of Star Trek.
Is there some deep, profound reason for this meeting? Of course not. We just like Star Trek (Spock is my all time favorite, in case you are interested. Or not. But there it is anyway).
It should be all good fun: no air conditioning, of course, but good fun anyway. I need to find my "beam me up, Scotty" t shirt.
What can one say? Easy: live long and prosper....
Tomorrow at the Unitarian Church in Islington a group of Star Trek fans (including Reverend Andy, and you would never find that with the Baptists, would you?) are gathering to watch old episodes of Star Trek.
Is there some deep, profound reason for this meeting? Of course not. We just like Star Trek (Spock is my all time favorite, in case you are interested. Or not. But there it is anyway).
It should be all good fun: no air conditioning, of course, but good fun anyway. I need to find my "beam me up, Scotty" t shirt.
What can one say? Easy: live long and prosper....
Boiling, baking and frying in Britain
I know that my friends in the US will be laughing at me when I say that we have had a heat wave-and by heat wave, I mean that for over a week it has been well over 80F-and into the low 90s. Compared to New York, and Florida, it's probably wintry!! But here, in the land of no (or very little) air conditioning, it is like being fried in Hell. No kidding. I would say that you can find me by following a trail of sweat, but that goes for just about everyone else, too.
You can find me by following a trail of tea and coffee-my balance has gone out the window with the changes in temperature and barometric pressure. Add to that the really strong sunlight, and I have a lot of trouble seeing six inches in front of me. It probably makes for good entertainment when I am trying to walk outside!!
I've been doing the doctor thing all week-and also been doing the cancer centre thing, too. I saw my Macmillan nurse (Fiona) yesterday, and she was just great. These women are so well trained to deal with all kinds of questions-I recommend any cancer patients contacting Macmillan as soon as they are diagnosed. I waited ages after surgery to do that-now I wish I had made the call sooner.
It is eight weeks today since I had the surgery. I wouldn't exactly call that a welcome anniversary-but I'm glad it is today and not eight weeks ago. I wouldn't like to ever have to go through that again. Ever. And, actually, I won't have to!! So there is always a silver lining to every tragedy. Sometimes it takes a lot of looking before you find it.
I looked yesterday. I came back from seeing Fiona, and I made a big mug of coffee (I drink tea everywhere else; English people make coffee that can strip the paint off walls and deep clean your tiled floor. Probably dissolve it, too). Then-I looked.
Most of the swelling and redness has gone, and I am left with some puckering and swelling in the corners, underneath the armpits. There is, obviously, a huge scar from one armpit across my chest, and it stops under the other armpit. When I saw Margaret (my GP, whom I will now call "Doc", since I am meeting a lot of Margarets in the cancer centre), we discussed reconstruction. And it will be risky for me because of the immune deficiency: the possibility of infection is very high. So I have until December to consider my options.
At the moment, I am cleaning. I get depressed, I clean. So my place will be very clear before I go into the hospital for stage 2: my architectural redesign of my knee (in other words, a probable knee replacement). I really prefer the term "architectural redesign"; it sounds better than knee replacement-and I won't know if that is what will be done until I wake in the recovery room. The extent of the damage will not be obvious until Mr. Skinner opens up the leg and takes a look. So-no idea. I just asked him not to remove my leg-and he thought that was funny. Good thing I know him for a long time: he knows when I am joking. Usually.
My friend from up north will have a London holiday from her family-and I will have another hospital holiday. Hospital food: yum. I will probably lose the kilo I've gained (under duress) and then I will be lectured again. Never mind. At least I will have a rest from the neighbor from Hell upstairs. Like I said: silver lining.
That is one of many things that cancer-and the fear of dying from cancer-has taught me: be less critical and judgmental. Cynicism has been part of my personality for as long as I can remember-and old habits die hard. I'm working on it, though. I'm working on it.
I'm going to see a homeopath on Monday. I spoke with my friend Dani, who is an acupuncturist-I see her rarely now, since I haven't been travelling much since 2010. But we spoke about homeopathy and all the various odd ailments I tend to pick up (thanks to CVID). I will happily post after the consultation and give you my take on it all. But I had homeopathy many years ago, and I have to say that it works on many things. And Anil is a fourth generation homeopath: he is very experienced and well trained, not like the people who take a weekend course and call themselves professionals. So-I'll give you the heads up next week.
By September I will have had all the surgery and consultations I can handle! I will only need repairs to my cartilage on my left knee-but that will be done in the spring, and by keyhole surgery. I am not allowed to fall down again after mid-August-so that will be funny, being on crutches and having no balance system to help.
Like I said last time: I may be down, but I am not out. I may be baking, but I am not broken. When I go (hopefully in about 30 or 40+ years), they can put that on my headstone.
I would say I'm like the Energizer bunny-but he turns around in circles, makes a lot of noise-and isn't he really, really annoying!!
You can find me by following a trail of tea and coffee-my balance has gone out the window with the changes in temperature and barometric pressure. Add to that the really strong sunlight, and I have a lot of trouble seeing six inches in front of me. It probably makes for good entertainment when I am trying to walk outside!!
I've been doing the doctor thing all week-and also been doing the cancer centre thing, too. I saw my Macmillan nurse (Fiona) yesterday, and she was just great. These women are so well trained to deal with all kinds of questions-I recommend any cancer patients contacting Macmillan as soon as they are diagnosed. I waited ages after surgery to do that-now I wish I had made the call sooner.
It is eight weeks today since I had the surgery. I wouldn't exactly call that a welcome anniversary-but I'm glad it is today and not eight weeks ago. I wouldn't like to ever have to go through that again. Ever. And, actually, I won't have to!! So there is always a silver lining to every tragedy. Sometimes it takes a lot of looking before you find it.
I looked yesterday. I came back from seeing Fiona, and I made a big mug of coffee (I drink tea everywhere else; English people make coffee that can strip the paint off walls and deep clean your tiled floor. Probably dissolve it, too). Then-I looked.
Most of the swelling and redness has gone, and I am left with some puckering and swelling in the corners, underneath the armpits. There is, obviously, a huge scar from one armpit across my chest, and it stops under the other armpit. When I saw Margaret (my GP, whom I will now call "Doc", since I am meeting a lot of Margarets in the cancer centre), we discussed reconstruction. And it will be risky for me because of the immune deficiency: the possibility of infection is very high. So I have until December to consider my options.
At the moment, I am cleaning. I get depressed, I clean. So my place will be very clear before I go into the hospital for stage 2: my architectural redesign of my knee (in other words, a probable knee replacement). I really prefer the term "architectural redesign"; it sounds better than knee replacement-and I won't know if that is what will be done until I wake in the recovery room. The extent of the damage will not be obvious until Mr. Skinner opens up the leg and takes a look. So-no idea. I just asked him not to remove my leg-and he thought that was funny. Good thing I know him for a long time: he knows when I am joking. Usually.
My friend from up north will have a London holiday from her family-and I will have another hospital holiday. Hospital food: yum. I will probably lose the kilo I've gained (under duress) and then I will be lectured again. Never mind. At least I will have a rest from the neighbor from Hell upstairs. Like I said: silver lining.
That is one of many things that cancer-and the fear of dying from cancer-has taught me: be less critical and judgmental. Cynicism has been part of my personality for as long as I can remember-and old habits die hard. I'm working on it, though. I'm working on it.
I'm going to see a homeopath on Monday. I spoke with my friend Dani, who is an acupuncturist-I see her rarely now, since I haven't been travelling much since 2010. But we spoke about homeopathy and all the various odd ailments I tend to pick up (thanks to CVID). I will happily post after the consultation and give you my take on it all. But I had homeopathy many years ago, and I have to say that it works on many things. And Anil is a fourth generation homeopath: he is very experienced and well trained, not like the people who take a weekend course and call themselves professionals. So-I'll give you the heads up next week.
By September I will have had all the surgery and consultations I can handle! I will only need repairs to my cartilage on my left knee-but that will be done in the spring, and by keyhole surgery. I am not allowed to fall down again after mid-August-so that will be funny, being on crutches and having no balance system to help.
Like I said last time: I may be down, but I am not out. I may be baking, but I am not broken. When I go (hopefully in about 30 or 40+ years), they can put that on my headstone.
I would say I'm like the Energizer bunny-but he turns around in circles, makes a lot of noise-and isn't he really, really annoying!!
Sunday, 14 July 2013
Close encounters of the weird kind
I still haven't died. And-I haven't been bone idle, either. We've had a heat wave. It's been in the 80s-and up to 90+- in the last two weeks, and continues to be so hot I feel like someone has put me in a toaster while I wasn't looking.
I am not good with heat. If it goes above 68F I want to leave town. Or stand in a cold shower until it gets cooler. And my hair frizzes, I melt...well, you get the idea. Add to that the fact that my balance and vision go completely out the window-and it's no wonder I am grumpy and I don't see well enough to go online. But-this is England, and this heat will pass-and then everyone (me included) will be moaning about the cold and wet. I've been here too long; I seem to have contracted the British disease of constantly moaning about the weather!
The thing is, once we have something that looks like sunshine-and heat, too-everyone calls in sick, and people swarm to the parks and strip off to bake, fry, turn beet red...and people who should know better and never show any flesh show entirely too much. I was walking down the street, minding my own business, trying to stay out of everyone's way (as I do), and this huge woman came hurling toward me. I do mean huge: she was like a brick outhouse (over here they say something else, but I am being polite. For once). Cockney accent (which I understand, after all these years). Swearing like a trooper. Skinny top, no bra, and breasts like cow's udders. The very person who should never go braless-and there she was, swinging in the wind. If I hadn't swerved, she would have hit me with one of her breasts and probably knocked me through a glass window. Oh-and she had tattoos. Everywhere- at least, everywhere you could see. From wrists to shoulders, she was covered. I had to avert my eyes-but I really wanted to see what was printed all over her arms! Really-she was like a longshoreman with tits. And a newspaper vendor standing near me said-loudly-it's enough to put me off my tea!! I laughed so hard, I nearly fell over.
Did I mention she had some man with her? Tattoos. Big mouth. And-a gut that looked like he had swallowed a basketball. In fact, it looked like he had swallowed the whole team. Actually, it would have been hilarious if it hadn't been so pathetic.
Tempers are very short here at the best of times. But in central London yesterday, fights were breaking out. Of course, that happens at every football match-but it was happening in the park, and in the street, and on the bus. I was glad to get home and close the door behind me. Let them all kill each other, but leave me out of it.
It is going to be hot like this for at least another week or so-and I will tell you, it's very difficult for me...but I just keep going, keep walking, even though I nearly fall over - and I keep sweating, which isn't a good look, trust me!!
I may be down, but I'm not out. I'm baking, but not done yet. It takes more than 90F to keep me from doing what I need to do. At least I don't have to suffer from cow's udders-that must be really painful, especially in high winds!!
I am not good with heat. If it goes above 68F I want to leave town. Or stand in a cold shower until it gets cooler. And my hair frizzes, I melt...well, you get the idea. Add to that the fact that my balance and vision go completely out the window-and it's no wonder I am grumpy and I don't see well enough to go online. But-this is England, and this heat will pass-and then everyone (me included) will be moaning about the cold and wet. I've been here too long; I seem to have contracted the British disease of constantly moaning about the weather!
The thing is, once we have something that looks like sunshine-and heat, too-everyone calls in sick, and people swarm to the parks and strip off to bake, fry, turn beet red...and people who should know better and never show any flesh show entirely too much. I was walking down the street, minding my own business, trying to stay out of everyone's way (as I do), and this huge woman came hurling toward me. I do mean huge: she was like a brick outhouse (over here they say something else, but I am being polite. For once). Cockney accent (which I understand, after all these years). Swearing like a trooper. Skinny top, no bra, and breasts like cow's udders. The very person who should never go braless-and there she was, swinging in the wind. If I hadn't swerved, she would have hit me with one of her breasts and probably knocked me through a glass window. Oh-and she had tattoos. Everywhere- at least, everywhere you could see. From wrists to shoulders, she was covered. I had to avert my eyes-but I really wanted to see what was printed all over her arms! Really-she was like a longshoreman with tits. And a newspaper vendor standing near me said-loudly-it's enough to put me off my tea!! I laughed so hard, I nearly fell over.
Did I mention she had some man with her? Tattoos. Big mouth. And-a gut that looked like he had swallowed a basketball. In fact, it looked like he had swallowed the whole team. Actually, it would have been hilarious if it hadn't been so pathetic.
Tempers are very short here at the best of times. But in central London yesterday, fights were breaking out. Of course, that happens at every football match-but it was happening in the park, and in the street, and on the bus. I was glad to get home and close the door behind me. Let them all kill each other, but leave me out of it.
It is going to be hot like this for at least another week or so-and I will tell you, it's very difficult for me...but I just keep going, keep walking, even though I nearly fall over - and I keep sweating, which isn't a good look, trust me!!
I may be down, but I'm not out. I'm baking, but not done yet. It takes more than 90F to keep me from doing what I need to do. At least I don't have to suffer from cow's udders-that must be really painful, especially in high winds!!
Sunday, 7 July 2013
Bisphosphonates, saggy bums, and droopy other bits
I haven't died-or been abducted, or been back in hospital, risking them killing me this time. But-when it takes this long to get back to my blog, you know that something has gone very wrong.
First things first: the last post-which, I understand, repeated about half a dozen times. Sorry! I was at the library, as usual-and the library computers are used by everyone. Apart from the fact that they take so much time to power up, you could eat a five course meal and do the washing up before you can get online, the school kids use them. They also eat while online-so there are always interesting materials on the keyboards: peanut butter, jam, bread crumbs, coke (the kind you drink, not the other kind-at least, not that I can see). There are other biologicals of unknown origin-and I mean, unknown-and very sticky. So the keys stick. And I always use Purell, the hand sanitizer of choice of the hospitals, afterward. I use so much Purell, I think the stock must have tripled!!
As difficult as it is to use my own laptop, I am doing that from now on-nobody needs to hear all the swearing when I hit the wrong key-at least, my computer is clean. And fast (ish). No more gooey gunge to scrape off!!
I was going to get on and fix the blog after the weekend-but I ended up doing the hospital rounds again, as I do every few months. The good people at the Royal London decided to give me an intravenous injection of something called "bisphosphonates" (try saying that quickly after a couple of glasses of wine!); these protect the bones against osteoporosis. This is what happens when you are born with CVID: you get all kinds of interesting illnesses, and really strange (and lethal) medications. I suspect that, since they failed to kill me with gentamicin (they came close), they figured they would give me the bis-whatsits. The side effects, according to the insert that comes in the box with the drug, says "feeling flu-ish, aching bones and joints". Huh.
I always read the inserts now. I want to know what to expect, even if it never happens. Of course, it would be a good idea to read the information before taking the drug. Did I? Of course not. So I spent the next three days in bed, in excruciating pain, having a terrible headache, chills, and feeling like my bones were going to explode. And that's what they call feeling "Flu-ish"!
By yesterday I was fed up with feeling sick, and I had to go to Covent Garden, to the Apple Store, to have my IPhone fixed. I was well enough to get there-and I couldn't believe how crowded it was. Another duh moment: Saturdays are shopping days. Ick. All kinds of people were crashing into me. Really, I should invest in shoulder and knee pads! Not a lovely look but at least I wouldn't be bruised.
In case you wondered, that is where the saggy bums come in. It has been really hot here, so people are no longer covering up. And some of them should do exactly that. They sag, they droop, and there are men walking around who have guts the size of bowling balls hanging over their belts. And they call us the fattest people in the West! I knew that would make you smile: the Brits are the fattest in Europe, and, per capita, they are at least as fat as we are. I had a good look around-as I was trying to stay upright, of course-and I can honestly say that when the Brits call us obese, the words "pot", "kettle" and "black" spring immediately to mind. That knowledge should make all Americans smile.
And I always end up sitting next to one of them-I'm surprised I still have two functioning legs!!
Now here's a question: why do men always check out the chest area whenever they look at a woman? They don't think we notice-but we do. Face first (occasionally) -then straight to the chest. But when we look at men, we look at the face, we don't immediately stare at the groin. That would be rude. We would call those people perverts.
There is food for thought until next time-which will be sooner, rather than later. I'm stopping before I throw this machine out the window. Besides-it's 80F, and both machine and I are frying.
.
First things first: the last post-which, I understand, repeated about half a dozen times. Sorry! I was at the library, as usual-and the library computers are used by everyone. Apart from the fact that they take so much time to power up, you could eat a five course meal and do the washing up before you can get online, the school kids use them. They also eat while online-so there are always interesting materials on the keyboards: peanut butter, jam, bread crumbs, coke (the kind you drink, not the other kind-at least, not that I can see). There are other biologicals of unknown origin-and I mean, unknown-and very sticky. So the keys stick. And I always use Purell, the hand sanitizer of choice of the hospitals, afterward. I use so much Purell, I think the stock must have tripled!!
As difficult as it is to use my own laptop, I am doing that from now on-nobody needs to hear all the swearing when I hit the wrong key-at least, my computer is clean. And fast (ish). No more gooey gunge to scrape off!!
I was going to get on and fix the blog after the weekend-but I ended up doing the hospital rounds again, as I do every few months. The good people at the Royal London decided to give me an intravenous injection of something called "bisphosphonates" (try saying that quickly after a couple of glasses of wine!); these protect the bones against osteoporosis. This is what happens when you are born with CVID: you get all kinds of interesting illnesses, and really strange (and lethal) medications. I suspect that, since they failed to kill me with gentamicin (they came close), they figured they would give me the bis-whatsits. The side effects, according to the insert that comes in the box with the drug, says "feeling flu-ish, aching bones and joints". Huh.
I always read the inserts now. I want to know what to expect, even if it never happens. Of course, it would be a good idea to read the information before taking the drug. Did I? Of course not. So I spent the next three days in bed, in excruciating pain, having a terrible headache, chills, and feeling like my bones were going to explode. And that's what they call feeling "Flu-ish"!
By yesterday I was fed up with feeling sick, and I had to go to Covent Garden, to the Apple Store, to have my IPhone fixed. I was well enough to get there-and I couldn't believe how crowded it was. Another duh moment: Saturdays are shopping days. Ick. All kinds of people were crashing into me. Really, I should invest in shoulder and knee pads! Not a lovely look but at least I wouldn't be bruised.
In case you wondered, that is where the saggy bums come in. It has been really hot here, so people are no longer covering up. And some of them should do exactly that. They sag, they droop, and there are men walking around who have guts the size of bowling balls hanging over their belts. And they call us the fattest people in the West! I knew that would make you smile: the Brits are the fattest in Europe, and, per capita, they are at least as fat as we are. I had a good look around-as I was trying to stay upright, of course-and I can honestly say that when the Brits call us obese, the words "pot", "kettle" and "black" spring immediately to mind. That knowledge should make all Americans smile.
And I always end up sitting next to one of them-I'm surprised I still have two functioning legs!!
Now here's a question: why do men always check out the chest area whenever they look at a woman? They don't think we notice-but we do. Face first (occasionally) -then straight to the chest. But when we look at men, we look at the face, we don't immediately stare at the groin. That would be rude. We would call those people perverts.
There is food for thought until next time-which will be sooner, rather than later. I'm stopping before I throw this machine out the window. Besides-it's 80F, and both machine and I are frying.
.
Thursday, 27 June 2013
Back for good (ish) - allegedly
As of today, I am five weeks post-op. I don't want to rush my through my life-it is going by at warp speed as it is-but I am so glad it is now and not five weeks ago-or even three or four weeks ago. I'm in much less pain. Of course, I still don't want to look at myself in the mirror-but I think that fear will pass. Eventually.
I went to the cancer center at the Royal Free Hospital on Tuesday. It's good-if you are a member (I am now), you can go in any time and have a cup of tea or coffee, and have a chat with anyone who happens to be around. And-they have Pilates and yoga classes, so I will be signing up for those. They even have exercise classes for women who are at least 12 weeks post surgery. I'll do that in a few weeks. So-there is support out there, I just needed to look for it.
The shock horror of the week is my legal case against Bart's. It is no surprise that people think that the only good place for lawyers is at the bottom of the ocean!! Mine were totally incompetent; they couldn't organize a necrophiliac's convention in the county morgue. So I started phoning around, and spoke with a couple of other firms-and the bad news is that virtually nobody who sues over gentamicin wins. Culpability is extremely difficult to prove. Causation, they all said: it's the doctors' word against mine, and you know who has the money-and therefore the power. My idiots milked the case for all it was worth-they just did it for the money. Because I went privately, rather than try for legal aid, or any of that stuff, I was a bit like the cash cow: ready to be taken for a ride. So-that made it a rather bad week, and that is why I simply hid out and didn't go near my computer.
I will get through this. I will get over this. I always do. People keep telling me how strong I am (they also keep telling me how thin I am, which is annoying, because I can fit into all my old skinny clothes. Yay.). I suppose they are right: I am strong. But I think that most people have more inner strength than they think. It takes a crisis to discover how strong and powerful we really are. And I have had enough crises for ten people!!
So that is my crappy news of the week. And the other crappy news of the week is that Haringey sent a surveyor to examine my flat yesterday. Three people showed up; we could have had a party. The short version is that they won't move me and they won't do anything about the damp and the mold. And I should, they said, be happy to be where I am, because so many people live in places that are much worse. Eeek. What a bloody awful week!! I will do the best I can with the place I've got until I am well enough to go back to private accommodation. This was my first ever council flat-and, trust me, it will be my last. If I stay there long enough, it will be my last flat of any kind, ever. So I am pushing myself to do more vestibular exercises to counteract the cancer, the surgery, the Tamoxifen.
Well, it is true that we don't always get what we want, no matter how many self-help gurus (and retailers) tell us differently. We just make them all rich, and wonder what we've done wrong. We've done nothing wrong-except listen to the wrong people!!! I'm finally learning to deal with whatever is right in front of me-even it I don't like it, and don't expect it.
In the sense that I'm finally able to look at life the way it is-rather than the way I want it to be, and then beat myself up (emotionally, obviously) when things don't go my way because I blame myself for the alleged failure to create what I want-cancer has given me a gift. The rose-colored glasses are now off for good. And-I don't stress over things as much as I did before-things and people. What is most important? My health. Without that, what else is there? There is nothing like cancer to force you to reassess your priorities!
I'm not afraid of kicking someone's ass out the door, either. I've done a lot of ass-kicking lately. It's great exercise!!
I went to the cancer center at the Royal Free Hospital on Tuesday. It's good-if you are a member (I am now), you can go in any time and have a cup of tea or coffee, and have a chat with anyone who happens to be around. And-they have Pilates and yoga classes, so I will be signing up for those. They even have exercise classes for women who are at least 12 weeks post surgery. I'll do that in a few weeks. So-there is support out there, I just needed to look for it.
The shock horror of the week is my legal case against Bart's. It is no surprise that people think that the only good place for lawyers is at the bottom of the ocean!! Mine were totally incompetent; they couldn't organize a necrophiliac's convention in the county morgue. So I started phoning around, and spoke with a couple of other firms-and the bad news is that virtually nobody who sues over gentamicin wins. Culpability is extremely difficult to prove. Causation, they all said: it's the doctors' word against mine, and you know who has the money-and therefore the power. My idiots milked the case for all it was worth-they just did it for the money. Because I went privately, rather than try for legal aid, or any of that stuff, I was a bit like the cash cow: ready to be taken for a ride. So-that made it a rather bad week, and that is why I simply hid out and didn't go near my computer.
I will get through this. I will get over this. I always do. People keep telling me how strong I am (they also keep telling me how thin I am, which is annoying, because I can fit into all my old skinny clothes. Yay.). I suppose they are right: I am strong. But I think that most people have more inner strength than they think. It takes a crisis to discover how strong and powerful we really are. And I have had enough crises for ten people!!
So that is my crappy news of the week. And the other crappy news of the week is that Haringey sent a surveyor to examine my flat yesterday. Three people showed up; we could have had a party. The short version is that they won't move me and they won't do anything about the damp and the mold. And I should, they said, be happy to be where I am, because so many people live in places that are much worse. Eeek. What a bloody awful week!! I will do the best I can with the place I've got until I am well enough to go back to private accommodation. This was my first ever council flat-and, trust me, it will be my last. If I stay there long enough, it will be my last flat of any kind, ever. So I am pushing myself to do more vestibular exercises to counteract the cancer, the surgery, the Tamoxifen.
Well, it is true that we don't always get what we want, no matter how many self-help gurus (and retailers) tell us differently. We just make them all rich, and wonder what we've done wrong. We've done nothing wrong-except listen to the wrong people!!! I'm finally learning to deal with whatever is right in front of me-even it I don't like it, and don't expect it.
In the sense that I'm finally able to look at life the way it is-rather than the way I want it to be, and then beat myself up (emotionally, obviously) when things don't go my way because I blame myself for the alleged failure to create what I want-cancer has given me a gift. The rose-colored glasses are now off for good. And-I don't stress over things as much as I did before-things and people. What is most important? My health. Without that, what else is there? There is nothing like cancer to force you to reassess your priorities!
I'm not afraid of kicking someone's ass out the door, either. I've done a lot of ass-kicking lately. It's great exercise!!
Saturday, 22 June 2013
Live long and prosper
I haven't felt like doing any computer work all week. I did go to see the surgeon-and he was pleased with his handiwork. Now he wants me to massage aqueous cream (or E45, or anything similar-greasy but moisturizing) into the wound, twice a day, religiously. Eeek!! I figured out that I could do that and still not look at myself in the mirror. I'm not quite ready for that traumatic experience (again) yet.
Andy is going to do a film night of Star Trek at the Unitarian Church. Star Trek. I love it-the original, I saw it when I was a kid, and it was hilarious: cardboard sets, terrible acting, directing and scripting. But it was the best of all of them. I can even do the Vulcan greeting. Does that make me a trekkie-or just a weirdo? I still love my t-shirt that says "Beam me up, Scotty, there's no intelligent life down here". I should wear it around here; of course, nobody would get the joke. In fact, nobody would know the difference. Sigh. Beam me to some area where there are intelligent human beings (how about New York?).
Well, I'm stuck here, so I might as well do the best of a bad job, as they say. And you can tell I've had a very depressed week. I've only been out of surgery four weeks-and I must admit I am feeling the effects, although the pain has lessened considerably. Still hurts to twist. And bend. And stretch. And move. And breathe. But I'm glad it is now and not four weeks ago. I would not want to relive the last four weeks!
In our culture, breasts are everything-for women, anyway. Women who are flat-chested are looked at with pity, it seems, while the double Ds get noticed. Of course they do! If you don't have brains, get big breasts. It's like a man and his penis. Size helps, but it isn't everything. I have known a few men who had the size but were totally useless (okay, well, only one, and that was about five years ago. He's an idiot; I was a bigger idiot for going out with him). Men even have enlargement surgery. Now that is really sad. Nobody is ever happy or satisfied with what they've got, are they?
I remember my ex-sister in law. She worked for a health authority in Devon, and she ordered all kinds of prosthetic devices. She would send us information about knees, hips, and so on. She once sent us something about a prosthesis called the "Jonas splint". Now, this is an absolutely true story (I always tell you true stories. Truth is often stranger than fiction-much stranger!).
So-the Jonas splint is an implant, and it works rather like an Anglepoise lamp. If a man has trouble, he gets this thing inserted, and when he wants to -um - function, shall we say? (in case any kids or anyone squeamish happen to be reading this)-he folds it up, does his thing, and then folds it down and puts it away. Really. Can you imagine how it would feel to have your partner say, excuse me while I restructure? I would be laughing so hard I wouldn't be able to have relations with anyone who has been fitted with a splint. I'd be covering my mouth to try to calm down, and I would probably be falling off the bed in hysterics. I certainly wouldn't be a good partner, that is for sure.
Now how did I get on the subject? Oh, yes- I was talking about not being satisfied with what we've got (I blame the Tamoxifen for my lapses in memory. It's a side effect. That is my story, and I am sticking to it). And I do have to say that most of my t-shirts fit better, now that I am flat. There is always a silver lining.
I saw Margaret, and we went over my choice to see a Macmillan (cancer) nurse next week, and to find a local support group (she approves, says it's a good way to recover). Then she weighed me. Oh, that was nasty. I was wearing jeans-and they weigh at least a pound! And I weighed in at under 50kgs-even with jeans-about 49 kilos. I got the riot act on that. I was ordered to eat more and gain weight, because I won't heal properly unless I practice good nutrition-etc, etc (I like being 49 kilos. I think the last time I weighed 49 kilos I was about 12 years old). So, I have to eat. And I did: yesterday I had a bag of potato wedges, and a lot of cheese...and salad...and I do tell lies about what and how much I eat, so...more good food. No Kettle Chips for awhile.
What can I say about that? Eat. May the forks be with you.
Andy is going to do a film night of Star Trek at the Unitarian Church. Star Trek. I love it-the original, I saw it when I was a kid, and it was hilarious: cardboard sets, terrible acting, directing and scripting. But it was the best of all of them. I can even do the Vulcan greeting. Does that make me a trekkie-or just a weirdo? I still love my t-shirt that says "Beam me up, Scotty, there's no intelligent life down here". I should wear it around here; of course, nobody would get the joke. In fact, nobody would know the difference. Sigh. Beam me to some area where there are intelligent human beings (how about New York?).
Well, I'm stuck here, so I might as well do the best of a bad job, as they say. And you can tell I've had a very depressed week. I've only been out of surgery four weeks-and I must admit I am feeling the effects, although the pain has lessened considerably. Still hurts to twist. And bend. And stretch. And move. And breathe. But I'm glad it is now and not four weeks ago. I would not want to relive the last four weeks!
In our culture, breasts are everything-for women, anyway. Women who are flat-chested are looked at with pity, it seems, while the double Ds get noticed. Of course they do! If you don't have brains, get big breasts. It's like a man and his penis. Size helps, but it isn't everything. I have known a few men who had the size but were totally useless (okay, well, only one, and that was about five years ago. He's an idiot; I was a bigger idiot for going out with him). Men even have enlargement surgery. Now that is really sad. Nobody is ever happy or satisfied with what they've got, are they?
I remember my ex-sister in law. She worked for a health authority in Devon, and she ordered all kinds of prosthetic devices. She would send us information about knees, hips, and so on. She once sent us something about a prosthesis called the "Jonas splint". Now, this is an absolutely true story (I always tell you true stories. Truth is often stranger than fiction-much stranger!).
So-the Jonas splint is an implant, and it works rather like an Anglepoise lamp. If a man has trouble, he gets this thing inserted, and when he wants to -um - function, shall we say? (in case any kids or anyone squeamish happen to be reading this)-he folds it up, does his thing, and then folds it down and puts it away. Really. Can you imagine how it would feel to have your partner say, excuse me while I restructure? I would be laughing so hard I wouldn't be able to have relations with anyone who has been fitted with a splint. I'd be covering my mouth to try to calm down, and I would probably be falling off the bed in hysterics. I certainly wouldn't be a good partner, that is for sure.
Now how did I get on the subject? Oh, yes- I was talking about not being satisfied with what we've got (I blame the Tamoxifen for my lapses in memory. It's a side effect. That is my story, and I am sticking to it). And I do have to say that most of my t-shirts fit better, now that I am flat. There is always a silver lining.
I saw Margaret, and we went over my choice to see a Macmillan (cancer) nurse next week, and to find a local support group (she approves, says it's a good way to recover). Then she weighed me. Oh, that was nasty. I was wearing jeans-and they weigh at least a pound! And I weighed in at under 50kgs-even with jeans-about 49 kilos. I got the riot act on that. I was ordered to eat more and gain weight, because I won't heal properly unless I practice good nutrition-etc, etc (I like being 49 kilos. I think the last time I weighed 49 kilos I was about 12 years old). So, I have to eat. And I did: yesterday I had a bag of potato wedges, and a lot of cheese...and salad...and I do tell lies about what and how much I eat, so...more good food. No Kettle Chips for awhile.
What can I say about that? Eat. May the forks be with you.
Monday, 17 June 2013
No rolling over, no giving up
On Thursday it will be exactly four weeks since surgery. I am so glad it is now, and not three weeks ago!! It has taken an inordinate amount of time for me to begin to feel better. Of course, I overdid the exercise, and the lifting, and the carrying...inactivity, when forced on me, drives me somewhat up the wall.
I have had a great opportunity since the beginning of May, when the diagnosis of breast cancer nearly sent me into a state of complete shock. Really, this was an opportunity-and you can see that I always try to make some sense out of terrible things that happen, even when they don't make sense! Optimistic pessimist, or pessimistic optimist? Who knows? Who cares? There are some things that don't make any sense at all, but we still need to accept them, and deal with them as gracefully as possible-and find something that brings us comfort. I still find that a challenge, even with all the adversity I've had to handle in my life. But I'm working on it!!
I've had more than one period of bursting into tears and wanting to quit since the beginning of May. I can tell you, based on conversations with other cancer patients, that this is a very natural reaction. After all, who really wants to die? I feel like I haven't even begun to live yet. Cancer has pushed me into reassessing my life.
I went to the Unitarian church yesterday; it was my first real day out (I don't count hospital visits. Those aren't days out!!). I received such a warm welcome-I was quite surprised. Several people told me that they were given a weekly report by the women who visited me in the hospital...and I have to say that knowing you aren't alone helps you heal. Whether you have friends, or family, or religious beliefs (or none of the above), support from other people is really important.
Did I tell you about Liz Macartney, the UKPIPS charity founder? I worked as a volunteer for the charity since last year. When I told her that I had breast cancer, she wrote that it's a bummer, and that she had a terrible headache, and she really overdid it. Obviously, her headache trumped my cancer!! LOL! She was not at all pleasant-and I never heard a word from her while I was in the hospital. My nurse said that Liz is so self-involved, she doesn't care about anyone but herself. I read about her headache, and I just laughed. Really, I just laughed. Then, not a peep out of her. Suddenly, I got a text from her last week: how are you? That was it: how are you? So I ignored it. I've decided that, if I want to be of any help to anyone, it won't be to someone like that!!
Now, I mention this because I had time-as I said-to reassess my life, and I decided to dump the dross, bin the dead wood, drop people from my address book-anyone who is very negative, or psychotic, or who moans all the time, is out. I moan, but I don't do it all the time. I've always used humor as a coping mechanism, and that is just part of my personality. So is having a little moan, but hibernating when things get really bad, because I feel that it is unfair to my friends to constantly complain (that is why I still have friends. I think!).
I said the other day that I heartily recommend celebrating the good things by doing or buying something you will always remember-like my red teapot of success and courage!! I also heartily recommend that anyone who has cancer-or any other disease or disorder or condition that adversely affects life-do a little reassessment meditation. There are some people we can't dump, even though we would love to do so!! But we can change the way we deal with them, and change our attitude toward them. Of course, we could strangle them, but that might be a little excessive! There are some fights that just aren't worth the toll they take on our health. And I've had more than a few of those, so believe me when I say I know this.
Watch funny movies. Eat lots of chocolate. And never underestimate the power of Kettle Chips!!
I have had a great opportunity since the beginning of May, when the diagnosis of breast cancer nearly sent me into a state of complete shock. Really, this was an opportunity-and you can see that I always try to make some sense out of terrible things that happen, even when they don't make sense! Optimistic pessimist, or pessimistic optimist? Who knows? Who cares? There are some things that don't make any sense at all, but we still need to accept them, and deal with them as gracefully as possible-and find something that brings us comfort. I still find that a challenge, even with all the adversity I've had to handle in my life. But I'm working on it!!
I've had more than one period of bursting into tears and wanting to quit since the beginning of May. I can tell you, based on conversations with other cancer patients, that this is a very natural reaction. After all, who really wants to die? I feel like I haven't even begun to live yet. Cancer has pushed me into reassessing my life.
I went to the Unitarian church yesterday; it was my first real day out (I don't count hospital visits. Those aren't days out!!). I received such a warm welcome-I was quite surprised. Several people told me that they were given a weekly report by the women who visited me in the hospital...and I have to say that knowing you aren't alone helps you heal. Whether you have friends, or family, or religious beliefs (or none of the above), support from other people is really important.
Did I tell you about Liz Macartney, the UKPIPS charity founder? I worked as a volunteer for the charity since last year. When I told her that I had breast cancer, she wrote that it's a bummer, and that she had a terrible headache, and she really overdid it. Obviously, her headache trumped my cancer!! LOL! She was not at all pleasant-and I never heard a word from her while I was in the hospital. My nurse said that Liz is so self-involved, she doesn't care about anyone but herself. I read about her headache, and I just laughed. Really, I just laughed. Then, not a peep out of her. Suddenly, I got a text from her last week: how are you? That was it: how are you? So I ignored it. I've decided that, if I want to be of any help to anyone, it won't be to someone like that!!
Now, I mention this because I had time-as I said-to reassess my life, and I decided to dump the dross, bin the dead wood, drop people from my address book-anyone who is very negative, or psychotic, or who moans all the time, is out. I moan, but I don't do it all the time. I've always used humor as a coping mechanism, and that is just part of my personality. So is having a little moan, but hibernating when things get really bad, because I feel that it is unfair to my friends to constantly complain (that is why I still have friends. I think!).
I said the other day that I heartily recommend celebrating the good things by doing or buying something you will always remember-like my red teapot of success and courage!! I also heartily recommend that anyone who has cancer-or any other disease or disorder or condition that adversely affects life-do a little reassessment meditation. There are some people we can't dump, even though we would love to do so!! But we can change the way we deal with them, and change our attitude toward them. Of course, we could strangle them, but that might be a little excessive! There are some fights that just aren't worth the toll they take on our health. And I've had more than a few of those, so believe me when I say I know this.
Watch funny movies. Eat lots of chocolate. And never underestimate the power of Kettle Chips!!
Saturday, 15 June 2013
The teapot of courage and success
This was another dire-and testing-week. I forced myself to look at the incision-which is still painful-so I made an appointment at the surgery. I discovered that Margaret was the duty doctor, so that made me happy.
Oh, well...after a wait of an hour and a half (surely a record for waiting in a GP's office!), I had to briefly tell her what was going on. And I walked in the door and burst into tears (such a crybaby!!). She examined the wound and said she thought everything would settle down, but it will take six months before all the lumps and puckering would finally clear. No infection, she said-just lumps filled with fluid, and that is normal. How am I supposed to know what is "normal"? Errr...pardon me, but I have only just had this surgery, so I have no clue.
On Thursday I had to go to the London for my quarterly bloodletting-and Matt was coming in to see me and check on how I am doing. I showed both John and Matt the God-awful incision, and they were both great. They were very supportive, and sympathetic. Nobody threw up at the sight, which made me feel better!
I have discovered how to live with this vicious operation and the mutilation involved. I just won't look at it. Really, I know it's there, and in the shower I wash very carefully so I don't yank out any stitches or make a mess. Simple: I don't look. It isn't denial, it is simply that I don't want to see what isn't there. Perhaps later on I will feel differently-when the stitches have dissolved, all the lumpiness and dimples and whatever have cleared. But now? I won't allow it to upset me. I've got other things I need to worry about! At least cancer isn't one of them. Personally I would rather not have cancer, so I consider myself lucky. Very lucky. If I'd waited a bit longer, the outcome would have been very different.
Ah, the teapot! Well, I wrote that on the day I got the verdict I bought a teapot so I would always remember the day I was told that the cancer hadn't spread, that I wouldn't need chemotherapy or radiation, and that I will just be checked for the next five years (and have to take Tamoxifen, which is a small price to pay, believe me!).
Sitting on my dining room table is my red ceramic teapot. When I look at it, I remember the feeling of knowing that I am clear of breast cancer. So my little teapot is my way of celebrating the relief-and good news.
For some reason, people don't seem to celebrate things anymore. Or-they celebrate with a bottle of wine, or champagne, or go out for a nice dinner-and that's fine, but you eat and/or drink, and the moment has passed and it's gone. Why not have something that will remind you of the moment, of the achievement, of the success-something you can look at for a long time and remember the feeling of relief, or joy, success, whatever it is? The little picture you bought in a flea shop, or a garage sale, that reminds you of your first date. The special stapler of getting the job you wanted so desperately (and nobody is suggesting that you need to go and buy a Monet, or a gold plated stapler, either! If you can afford a real Monet, let me know, and I will go shopping with you!). The china cup and saucer that signify your divorce (if you initiated it, of course, and are delirious with joy for getting rid of that tosser once and for all).
You get the idea: celebrate. Mark your success with something tangible, something you can look at-and, if necessary, throw at the offending party some time in the future...really, celebrate with something that has meaning, not just a meal or a drink. Something that will last (and some things last longer than the relationship you are marking, so you can always break them later on!!).
My teapot says I'm free of cancer, and I don't need chemo or radiation, just to be vigilant, because it can return. But I won't focus on that possibility; I will focus on the now. And the now says: I'm clear. I wish everyone could say that...
Some of the Unitarian congregation came to see me while I was in the hospital. One man, called David, was a cameraman and made some short films. He's an older gentleman, and seemed to have lived a very interesting life. He asked me whether I wanted to help other people who have been through this cancer ordeal. I said, of course, I would help anyone who had (or has) cancer, or CVID, or gentamicin poisoning-because I have been through it all and I know how it feels, and how hard it is to copy sometimes. He then asked if I would talk to a camera. I would sit in a chair, just talk, he would film it-and then put it on YouTube. I'm thinking about it. I really am thinking about it. At the moment, I am at the thinking stage. Hmmm...
Oh, well...after a wait of an hour and a half (surely a record for waiting in a GP's office!), I had to briefly tell her what was going on. And I walked in the door and burst into tears (such a crybaby!!). She examined the wound and said she thought everything would settle down, but it will take six months before all the lumps and puckering would finally clear. No infection, she said-just lumps filled with fluid, and that is normal. How am I supposed to know what is "normal"? Errr...pardon me, but I have only just had this surgery, so I have no clue.
On Thursday I had to go to the London for my quarterly bloodletting-and Matt was coming in to see me and check on how I am doing. I showed both John and Matt the God-awful incision, and they were both great. They were very supportive, and sympathetic. Nobody threw up at the sight, which made me feel better!
I have discovered how to live with this vicious operation and the mutilation involved. I just won't look at it. Really, I know it's there, and in the shower I wash very carefully so I don't yank out any stitches or make a mess. Simple: I don't look. It isn't denial, it is simply that I don't want to see what isn't there. Perhaps later on I will feel differently-when the stitches have dissolved, all the lumpiness and dimples and whatever have cleared. But now? I won't allow it to upset me. I've got other things I need to worry about! At least cancer isn't one of them. Personally I would rather not have cancer, so I consider myself lucky. Very lucky. If I'd waited a bit longer, the outcome would have been very different.
Ah, the teapot! Well, I wrote that on the day I got the verdict I bought a teapot so I would always remember the day I was told that the cancer hadn't spread, that I wouldn't need chemotherapy or radiation, and that I will just be checked for the next five years (and have to take Tamoxifen, which is a small price to pay, believe me!).
Sitting on my dining room table is my red ceramic teapot. When I look at it, I remember the feeling of knowing that I am clear of breast cancer. So my little teapot is my way of celebrating the relief-and good news.
For some reason, people don't seem to celebrate things anymore. Or-they celebrate with a bottle of wine, or champagne, or go out for a nice dinner-and that's fine, but you eat and/or drink, and the moment has passed and it's gone. Why not have something that will remind you of the moment, of the achievement, of the success-something you can look at for a long time and remember the feeling of relief, or joy, success, whatever it is? The little picture you bought in a flea shop, or a garage sale, that reminds you of your first date. The special stapler of getting the job you wanted so desperately (and nobody is suggesting that you need to go and buy a Monet, or a gold plated stapler, either! If you can afford a real Monet, let me know, and I will go shopping with you!). The china cup and saucer that signify your divorce (if you initiated it, of course, and are delirious with joy for getting rid of that tosser once and for all).
You get the idea: celebrate. Mark your success with something tangible, something you can look at-and, if necessary, throw at the offending party some time in the future...really, celebrate with something that has meaning, not just a meal or a drink. Something that will last (and some things last longer than the relationship you are marking, so you can always break them later on!!).
My teapot says I'm free of cancer, and I don't need chemo or radiation, just to be vigilant, because it can return. But I won't focus on that possibility; I will focus on the now. And the now says: I'm clear. I wish everyone could say that...
Some of the Unitarian congregation came to see me while I was in the hospital. One man, called David, was a cameraman and made some short films. He's an older gentleman, and seemed to have lived a very interesting life. He asked me whether I wanted to help other people who have been through this cancer ordeal. I said, of course, I would help anyone who had (or has) cancer, or CVID, or gentamicin poisoning-because I have been through it all and I know how it feels, and how hard it is to copy sometimes. He then asked if I would talk to a camera. I would sit in a chair, just talk, he would film it-and then put it on YouTube. I'm thinking about it. I really am thinking about it. At the moment, I am at the thinking stage. Hmmm...
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