Well, that might be going overboard slightly. But I am lurking-lurking near the turkey, as I am basting it and getting ready to stuff my face (one of my many talents). I'm using a soup spoon in lieu of a turkey baster. Gosh, I wish I had a turkey baster.
I'm on strike from talking about the government's latest asinine antics: no critique of the world class wankers today, it is Thanksgiving Day, and I am just really happy to be able to write. In fact, I'm happy to be able to walk! This is the first Thanksgiving since 2009 that I really feel like giving thanks. After that, life went all to hell: gentamicin (we all know how well that worked out, don't we?), cancer...I'm so very lucky to be alive, and lucky to be pretty healthy (yeah, I know: for my age. I'd like to slap people who say that, even if it is true).
I remember my mother using a turkey baster; it had a rubber bulb on one end, and a glass tube with a narrow hole at the end. All you did was suck up the juice and baste the bird.Easy peasy. I'm sure someone still makes them. I'll have to go hunting. In fact, that would be great for me to take on my travels. Just suck up something noxious, and when some idiot (invariably) knocks me and is nasty, all I have to do is take out my trusty turkey baster, aim-and shoot. What are they going to do, have me arrested? Can you imagine, being charged with assault with a turkey baster? How hilarious that would be. What will be next, a soup ladle?
I went to see The Book of Mormon yesterday. I braved both terrorists and imbeciles (none of the former, plenty of the latter), using the Underground (I try never to use the tube, I'm short and I always come up to someone's armpit. Usually that someone hasn't had a bath in a couple of-decades. Phew!) and the bus (almost as bad as the Underground). Piccadilly Circus was heaving with people, and there wasn't a policeman (or policewoman) in sight. No surprise there! They were knocking me, and knocking each other, and there was a lot of swearing in many different languages. Someone next to me was shouting abuse at someone who had run into him, and when he was finished, I asked him what language he was speaking (only I would do something like that. I'm either fearless or foolish. Or both). He said he was speaking Urdu. I asked him if he was telling the idiot to f*** off-and, if he was, would he teach me how to say it in Urdu. He just looked at me-then he shook his head, and said that I would be better off not knowing. Then he walked away. Damn-I can say it in a few languages, but they are all the popular ones. So much for Urdu. I would ask my friend Dani how to say it in Russian, but I don't think she would be at all amused. Oh, well-it was an idea, anyway.
So today I have to really think about all the things I am thankful for-and there are a lot. I know that people say that you should make a gratitude list, and that reminding yourself to feel grateful is a good antidote to stress (so is smacking someone with an elbow crutch).
Well. I'm grateful, I give thanks, for the fact that I can dance around the house, stick my butt out and twerk-or at least, jiggle my wobbly bits and do a good imitation of a twerk. To all those skinny people who do a mean twerk: I salute you. Maybe if I do it a lot, I will have a smaller butt. And, by the way, I didn't fall over. So that is a bloody miracle, considering how hard I was laughing at the time.
It has been a long, very tough-arduous, in fact-road I've traveled over the last few years, and I've amazed a lot of people with my strength and resilience. I've been told many times that I am an inspiration to other people. Mostly, I think I have been a royal pain in the ass-but this pain in the ass is still here, still pushing to get better, still in everyone's face (especially the doctors).
I've had a lot of support from some very good friends-but they aren't in this country. So, I've had to do everything on my own, without any help from anyone. I had to prove to myself that I could get better, that I could reach the point where I wouldn't have to rely on anyone else to look after me-and I've done exactly that. And I will keep doing exactly that, since it seems to be very difficult for me to ask anyone else for help. So the moral of my continuing story is: never give up. Never quit. Never.
I wish everyone a very happy Thanksgiving. I'm getting the parsnips, and potatoes, and sprouts-oh, sorry, I don't want to make you hungry (even though in about a half an hour I will be stuffing my face. Yum!). But I've been looking forward to being able to make a Thanksgiving dinner for five years-without burning the house down.
Then I'm going shopping. For a turkey baster.
Thursday, 26 November 2015
Wednesday, 25 November 2015
And just for the record...
Well, for the record: knitting? Seriously? There would be a lot of swearing, and blood loss. I cannot think of much that would be more boring (and painful) than sticking myself with a knitting needle.
So I am going to see The Book of Mormon in the West End. Any terrorists can be my guest and shove their explosives up their backsides. With all that I have gone through over the last five and a half years- one thing I most certainly not is afraid. And don't you be, either.
So I am going to see The Book of Mormon in the West End. Any terrorists can be my guest and shove their explosives up their backsides. With all that I have gone through over the last five and a half years- one thing I most certainly not is afraid. And don't you be, either.
Doing the Victory War Dance
The world seems to have gone completely nuts-even more nuts than it was already.
While I was doing my due diligence, going through all the tests, being magnetized, irradiated, blood-letted, poked, prodded, and everything except dissected (they probably would have wanted to do that, too, but I moved faster than they did), the French got the ringleader of the terrorists. I heard this on the news when I got back from seeing the throat people-and finding out that they need to do another biopsy. But more about that later.
Well, I heard the news about Abaaoud, and on went my happy face, I was punching the air, and doing a happy dance-which I called my victory war dance. I danced around my little apartment, did a little jig, and even did something which remotely resembled a twerk-and all without falling over, which is quite an accomplishment, I can tell you. The words "twerk", and "jig" will make my friends (who keep up with this blog) smile. Now there is a visual nobody will forget in a hurry! And so much for the Christian/Jewish/Buddhist/Taoist/Unitarian/Quaker/Wiccan/anyone else I have left out (sorry) qualities of compassion, love and forgiveness. Since when do homicidal maniacs deserve any of those? Nope-I'm a hard liner where that is concerned.
Don't go to Mali (who would want to, anyway?). Don't go to Germany (especially Hanover. People are being blown up in Hanover). Don't go to Brussels (it's been shut for awhile, anyway). Brussels is the Mecca of terrorists-there is an entire section of the city where these maniacs have settled in order to plan their next attacks. Plus, it's also the home of organized pedophile rings, and neo-Nazi groups.
Of course, don't come here, because-oh, that's right, there are very few police!! And Cameron and the rest of Parliament are pussy footing around, having debates about how to destroy IS-while the French and Americans are actually taking action.
In fact, don't go anywhere. Stay home. Learn how to knit.
I think that everyone, everywhere should be concerned-not terrified, but concerned. Vigilant. Everyone is a target. And it is difficult to eradicate homicidal maniacs who just love to kill, indiscriminately, while using their religion as an excuse. This isn't Islam. This is genocide.
My medical ordeal is nearly at an end. My throat guy managed to take a biopsy that was too small (what a total idiot!), so the biopsy needs to be repeated. It was horrendous enough the first time, and now they are going to do it all over again. Wonderful. I just love the feeling that a flame thrower has been shoved down my throat-and that someone seems to have punched me in the jaw while I was sedated. And-I'm pretty sure that nothing is terribly wrong, anyway.
All the results are showing that I am in excellent health - for my age, they tell me. I can live very nicely without the "for my age", thanks. But all my hard work is paying off, and even my balance has begun to improve, although the change in the weather left me stumbling around for a few days. That was a little disconcerting-but I was advised to expect it, so I simply decided that the setbacks are temporary. I just keep going. I fall, I pick myself up, I keep going. I won't give in.
And speaking of not giving in: in my opinion, we all need to be vigilant, but not be afraid to go out, to do things, to live as normally as possible. Of course, we can be in a situation like Paris-or Mali-or Brussels-or Hanover-or be on a plane and wonder if we are going to make it to our destination in one piece. But if we give in to the fear of being victims of terrorist lunatics, then we have lost. And they have won. They want to destroy us, and they want to destroy our way of life. Let's make sure they don't succeed. For that, it takes people power. It takes everyone to work together to defeat the terrorists-if, indeed, they can be defeated, since they seem to be everywhere. Is it do-able? I think so.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day-and I have given a great deal of thought over things that make me grateful. I will be posting tomorrow. And stuffing my face, of course. I'm still here. I've become a lot stronger than I ever imagined I could be-so I will be posting-and eating. What's not to like?
While I was doing my due diligence, going through all the tests, being magnetized, irradiated, blood-letted, poked, prodded, and everything except dissected (they probably would have wanted to do that, too, but I moved faster than they did), the French got the ringleader of the terrorists. I heard this on the news when I got back from seeing the throat people-and finding out that they need to do another biopsy. But more about that later.
Well, I heard the news about Abaaoud, and on went my happy face, I was punching the air, and doing a happy dance-which I called my victory war dance. I danced around my little apartment, did a little jig, and even did something which remotely resembled a twerk-and all without falling over, which is quite an accomplishment, I can tell you. The words "twerk", and "jig" will make my friends (who keep up with this blog) smile. Now there is a visual nobody will forget in a hurry! And so much for the Christian/Jewish/Buddhist/Taoist/Unitarian/Quaker/Wiccan/anyone else I have left out (sorry) qualities of compassion, love and forgiveness. Since when do homicidal maniacs deserve any of those? Nope-I'm a hard liner where that is concerned.
Don't go to Mali (who would want to, anyway?). Don't go to Germany (especially Hanover. People are being blown up in Hanover). Don't go to Brussels (it's been shut for awhile, anyway). Brussels is the Mecca of terrorists-there is an entire section of the city where these maniacs have settled in order to plan their next attacks. Plus, it's also the home of organized pedophile rings, and neo-Nazi groups.
Of course, don't come here, because-oh, that's right, there are very few police!! And Cameron and the rest of Parliament are pussy footing around, having debates about how to destroy IS-while the French and Americans are actually taking action.
In fact, don't go anywhere. Stay home. Learn how to knit.
I think that everyone, everywhere should be concerned-not terrified, but concerned. Vigilant. Everyone is a target. And it is difficult to eradicate homicidal maniacs who just love to kill, indiscriminately, while using their religion as an excuse. This isn't Islam. This is genocide.
My medical ordeal is nearly at an end. My throat guy managed to take a biopsy that was too small (what a total idiot!), so the biopsy needs to be repeated. It was horrendous enough the first time, and now they are going to do it all over again. Wonderful. I just love the feeling that a flame thrower has been shoved down my throat-and that someone seems to have punched me in the jaw while I was sedated. And-I'm pretty sure that nothing is terribly wrong, anyway.
All the results are showing that I am in excellent health - for my age, they tell me. I can live very nicely without the "for my age", thanks. But all my hard work is paying off, and even my balance has begun to improve, although the change in the weather left me stumbling around for a few days. That was a little disconcerting-but I was advised to expect it, so I simply decided that the setbacks are temporary. I just keep going. I fall, I pick myself up, I keep going. I won't give in.
And speaking of not giving in: in my opinion, we all need to be vigilant, but not be afraid to go out, to do things, to live as normally as possible. Of course, we can be in a situation like Paris-or Mali-or Brussels-or Hanover-or be on a plane and wonder if we are going to make it to our destination in one piece. But if we give in to the fear of being victims of terrorist lunatics, then we have lost. And they have won. They want to destroy us, and they want to destroy our way of life. Let's make sure they don't succeed. For that, it takes people power. It takes everyone to work together to defeat the terrorists-if, indeed, they can be defeated, since they seem to be everywhere. Is it do-able? I think so.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day-and I have given a great deal of thought over things that make me grateful. I will be posting tomorrow. And stuffing my face, of course. I'm still here. I've become a lot stronger than I ever imagined I could be-so I will be posting-and eating. What's not to like?
Wednesday, 18 November 2015
Fluctuat nec mergitur: France goes to war. Again.
I had all good intentions on Saturday morning. I was on a roll; I would return to the gym. Unfortunately, this would involve being able to raise my arms and move my legs-and I truly was walking like I had just lost my virginity (yes, I can remember back that far!).
In fact, if you'd put some makeup on me I would have been terrific as an extra from The Walking Dead. And that is what I get for being so enthusiastic about returning to the gym after a very, very long time away. Not a good idea to overdo it at any age-age is irrelevant, it's the fitness (or lack thereof) that makes all the difference.
So I walked-in the rain, in the cold, and for another day I was cold, wet and p***ed off. But I walked, because, as you know, if I don't I will lose what I have worked so hard to achieve: some balance. The more I walk, and bend, and twist, and fall over and get up again, the harder my brain has to work to compensate for the total vestibular destruction. It's a real pain (many times literal pain, too), but it is a huge challenge, and I'm damned if I am going to spend the rest of my life using an elbow crutch.
On the way back, I stopped to buy the newspaper-and there it was, all over every paper, even the tabloid rags (I'm still amazed that they actually were able to spell Paris. Must have had someone do a spell check). So I came back and read through the Times, and learned that on Friday night there was another massacre in the French capital. I suddenly wasn't hungry. Or thirsty. And I was definitely not in a "let's take the mickey" kind of mood. It's a moratorium on French jokes. Even the idea hurts.
This was at the end of a week that saw an 87 year old woman, sitting on a London bus and minding her own business (as one does when one is 87, I would imagine), being punched in the face by a 14 year old girl. The poor woman suffered a black eye and other injuries, the unprovoked attack made all the headlines, and she will probably get off with a warning-because that is what "justice" means in this country: there isn't any. Knife crimes are up; there are shootings; the government massages the figures to show that unemployment is down-sure, it's down, but the death rate is zooming.
This was the end of a week in which the NHS was found to have missed all its targets for the year, because there isn't any money (unless you are a politician, a consultant, the managers of hospitals, of course, because that is clearly where the money is going).
This was a week in which we learned that the budget cuts in every council in every borough have to be so severe that in London they have even cut the police force: by ten thousand officers. Yes, that is what I said: ten thousand policemen (and women) are now unemployed. And Paris suffers a terrorist attack in which 129 people are dead, over 350 are injured, and 99 out of those 350 are in critical condition. And the French are now fighting back. And good for them, too.
The Eiffel Tower is bathed in the French colors, red, white and blue-and across it are the words "fluctuat nec mergitur": tossed but not sunk. President Hollande wasted no time in sending bombers to hit IS in Syria, and has said that they will defeat Islamic State. Every day there is something else. Every day. It's unbelievable that these homicidal maniacs have not been decimated.
David Cameron, the head turd of this government, stated that Britain will stand "shoulder to shoulder" with the French. Of course-until there is a problem, and then Cameron will disappear, as he always does in a crisis. He expressed "sympathy"-and sympathy, as we know, can be found in the dictionary-between shit and syphilis. So much for his sympathy: it's as worthless as he is.
So all the in-fighting has begun. The French let the lead terrorist go over the border into Belgium, even though the borders were (allegedly) closed. So they got some stick for that. And, of course, we ("we" meaning America) will be wading in there, too. Not the Brits: they would much prefer that it is our soldiers who are risking their lives, and our money that is paying for any skirmishes. That is the British way. It all makes me want to puke.
The police in London (what is left of them, that is) are telling us that we are all "safe". They said that just before the London bombings, too, so I don't really believe anything anyone tells us. The Islamic State maniacs (and they are maniacs. What sane, rational people would commit so much slaughter?) have shown that everyone is a target and that nobody is safe. Even in Germany a football game was cancelled because a bomb was found inside the stadium.
As for me, I feel a general sense of unease. I've got the Muslim maniac still upstairs, so that makes me extra careful-but I refuse to be intimidated by fear of anyone.
I had the last of my scans yesterday: a bone density scan, which I will need every two years, since I take anti-cancer medication that affects the bones-and I will have to take it for another eight years, by which time, who knows if I will have any bones left? But I am no longer radioactive, so it is safe for anyone who wants children to come near me!
I'm also back at the gym, now that I am able to walk normally. It really was a bit funny: people were actually getting out of my way as I was walking up the road. I must have looked scary. I'll have to try that again.
While all the politicians from everywhere are pointing fingers and apportioning blame, I am keeping quiet. I have learned the hard way to keep schtum-now if I can only do that when I am outside, that would be such a good idea. You never know who is going to turn around stick one on you-or in you.
Telling off the braindeads just isn't worth the risk-they are not worth the risk.
I'll just hit them with my stick (accidentally, of course). And carry my mace.
In fact, if you'd put some makeup on me I would have been terrific as an extra from The Walking Dead. And that is what I get for being so enthusiastic about returning to the gym after a very, very long time away. Not a good idea to overdo it at any age-age is irrelevant, it's the fitness (or lack thereof) that makes all the difference.
So I walked-in the rain, in the cold, and for another day I was cold, wet and p***ed off. But I walked, because, as you know, if I don't I will lose what I have worked so hard to achieve: some balance. The more I walk, and bend, and twist, and fall over and get up again, the harder my brain has to work to compensate for the total vestibular destruction. It's a real pain (many times literal pain, too), but it is a huge challenge, and I'm damned if I am going to spend the rest of my life using an elbow crutch.
On the way back, I stopped to buy the newspaper-and there it was, all over every paper, even the tabloid rags (I'm still amazed that they actually were able to spell Paris. Must have had someone do a spell check). So I came back and read through the Times, and learned that on Friday night there was another massacre in the French capital. I suddenly wasn't hungry. Or thirsty. And I was definitely not in a "let's take the mickey" kind of mood. It's a moratorium on French jokes. Even the idea hurts.
This was at the end of a week that saw an 87 year old woman, sitting on a London bus and minding her own business (as one does when one is 87, I would imagine), being punched in the face by a 14 year old girl. The poor woman suffered a black eye and other injuries, the unprovoked attack made all the headlines, and she will probably get off with a warning-because that is what "justice" means in this country: there isn't any. Knife crimes are up; there are shootings; the government massages the figures to show that unemployment is down-sure, it's down, but the death rate is zooming.
This was the end of a week in which the NHS was found to have missed all its targets for the year, because there isn't any money (unless you are a politician, a consultant, the managers of hospitals, of course, because that is clearly where the money is going).
This was a week in which we learned that the budget cuts in every council in every borough have to be so severe that in London they have even cut the police force: by ten thousand officers. Yes, that is what I said: ten thousand policemen (and women) are now unemployed. And Paris suffers a terrorist attack in which 129 people are dead, over 350 are injured, and 99 out of those 350 are in critical condition. And the French are now fighting back. And good for them, too.
The Eiffel Tower is bathed in the French colors, red, white and blue-and across it are the words "fluctuat nec mergitur": tossed but not sunk. President Hollande wasted no time in sending bombers to hit IS in Syria, and has said that they will defeat Islamic State. Every day there is something else. Every day. It's unbelievable that these homicidal maniacs have not been decimated.
David Cameron, the head turd of this government, stated that Britain will stand "shoulder to shoulder" with the French. Of course-until there is a problem, and then Cameron will disappear, as he always does in a crisis. He expressed "sympathy"-and sympathy, as we know, can be found in the dictionary-between shit and syphilis. So much for his sympathy: it's as worthless as he is.
So all the in-fighting has begun. The French let the lead terrorist go over the border into Belgium, even though the borders were (allegedly) closed. So they got some stick for that. And, of course, we ("we" meaning America) will be wading in there, too. Not the Brits: they would much prefer that it is our soldiers who are risking their lives, and our money that is paying for any skirmishes. That is the British way. It all makes me want to puke.
The police in London (what is left of them, that is) are telling us that we are all "safe". They said that just before the London bombings, too, so I don't really believe anything anyone tells us. The Islamic State maniacs (and they are maniacs. What sane, rational people would commit so much slaughter?) have shown that everyone is a target and that nobody is safe. Even in Germany a football game was cancelled because a bomb was found inside the stadium.
As for me, I feel a general sense of unease. I've got the Muslim maniac still upstairs, so that makes me extra careful-but I refuse to be intimidated by fear of anyone.
I had the last of my scans yesterday: a bone density scan, which I will need every two years, since I take anti-cancer medication that affects the bones-and I will have to take it for another eight years, by which time, who knows if I will have any bones left? But I am no longer radioactive, so it is safe for anyone who wants children to come near me!
I'm also back at the gym, now that I am able to walk normally. It really was a bit funny: people were actually getting out of my way as I was walking up the road. I must have looked scary. I'll have to try that again.
While all the politicians from everywhere are pointing fingers and apportioning blame, I am keeping quiet. I have learned the hard way to keep schtum-now if I can only do that when I am outside, that would be such a good idea. You never know who is going to turn around stick one on you-or in you.
Telling off the braindeads just isn't worth the risk-they are not worth the risk.
I'll just hit them with my stick (accidentally, of course). And carry my mace.
Friday, 13 November 2015
What's a small rupture between friends?
After I logged off this morning I walked over to the gym. In the rain. And the cold. And I was nearly there when I decided to put it off for another day. So I turned around, took three steps, and decided that I was going to go whether I wanted to or not. Time to stop being a wuss and to get myself together. I need to start doing things that don't involve hospitals, tests, doctors-I need to start living again. And I used to really like the gym.
So I did some exercises before the start of my training session: treadmill, some leg exercises, all just to really warm up. Then I remembered what I used to like about the gym: I liked getting stronger, fitter, challenging myself just that little bit more, doing just that little bit more than I thought I could do. And, after two and a half years of doing nothing, I felt like I was coming back to normal.
Then my training session started. For an hour I was put through my paces, and did I discover just how unfit I've become? Did I ever!! All the things I used to do-I could barely do-so I know there is a challenge ahead. Another one. I've never been one to run from a challenge. So I hit the session hard, and I have a program to do for the next six weeks, before I am changed up to something more difficult. Er-difficult? I could barely walk out of there, and I had to fake it because my trainer was laughing. Are you in tomorrow? I asked him. Oh, yes, come tomorrow, go through the program, I will help you if you get stuck-he said. So I'm doing this all again tomorrow. If I can walk, that is.
I walked up the road to the supermarket after my training-very slowly. I do mean slowly. People did actually avoid me. I think they thought I was about to keel over. And I went into the supermarket and walked around, but nothing really appealed to me. My trainer had advised eating some high quality protein after the workout, but I honestly wasn't drawn to anything. I saw one of the sales people up on a step ladder, and she looked at me and asked me if I was okay. This is someone who is older - and shorter-than I am, so we get along really well. Really, someone is older-and shorter-than I am. Amazing, especially now that I have, after the workout, shrunk to about four feet tall. I just managed to gasp "gym", and Ann started to laugh. Oh, she said, I know just how you feel. You overdid it. I've done that, too-and you are younger and fitter than I am, she said (I'm too lazy to punctuate-it hurts to lift my arms!). Well, I always overdo it. After such a long time that was just nuts. And then she said: don't worry, dear (I hate being called dear-unless the person calling me that is really, really close-and wouldn't do that because they would know that I hate being called "dear". Grrr!!). You will be fine by tomorrow. Well, perhaps not tomorrow. Or Sunday. Possibly by Monday. Then she looked me up and down and added: or Tuesday. And laughed, and I laughed, and I tried not to think uncharitable thoughts, since Ann was up on the ladder stacking shelves. We both said goodbye, and I thought as I was walking away that it was all fine, and that eventually she would probably fall off the ladder and break something, and then I could tell her when I see her that everything will be fine. In a couple of months. Maybe three. Or four.
I feel like I have strained every muscle in my body. Or possibly ruptured a few. Not only that, but I have aches in places where I didn't even know I had muscles (at least not ones I could strain by doing weight training!). Even my face hurts. How is that possible? I didn't lift any weights with my face! And I'm walking like I've just lost my virginity (yes, I can remember back that far!!).
By tomorrow I expect not to be bent over-or even folded over-and I will probably go back to the gym but I won't do quite so much. I could, of course, be very optimistic at this point, but we'll see. I could, of course, be so sore by tomorrow that I can't get out of bed-but I will let you know.
Oh-I got back and stuffed my face with a bag of Kettle Chips, and felt instantly better. Ow. Oink. Who cares? I worked it off, and that is my story and I'm sticking to it.
So I did some exercises before the start of my training session: treadmill, some leg exercises, all just to really warm up. Then I remembered what I used to like about the gym: I liked getting stronger, fitter, challenging myself just that little bit more, doing just that little bit more than I thought I could do. And, after two and a half years of doing nothing, I felt like I was coming back to normal.
Then my training session started. For an hour I was put through my paces, and did I discover just how unfit I've become? Did I ever!! All the things I used to do-I could barely do-so I know there is a challenge ahead. Another one. I've never been one to run from a challenge. So I hit the session hard, and I have a program to do for the next six weeks, before I am changed up to something more difficult. Er-difficult? I could barely walk out of there, and I had to fake it because my trainer was laughing. Are you in tomorrow? I asked him. Oh, yes, come tomorrow, go through the program, I will help you if you get stuck-he said. So I'm doing this all again tomorrow. If I can walk, that is.
I walked up the road to the supermarket after my training-very slowly. I do mean slowly. People did actually avoid me. I think they thought I was about to keel over. And I went into the supermarket and walked around, but nothing really appealed to me. My trainer had advised eating some high quality protein after the workout, but I honestly wasn't drawn to anything. I saw one of the sales people up on a step ladder, and she looked at me and asked me if I was okay. This is someone who is older - and shorter-than I am, so we get along really well. Really, someone is older-and shorter-than I am. Amazing, especially now that I have, after the workout, shrunk to about four feet tall. I just managed to gasp "gym", and Ann started to laugh. Oh, she said, I know just how you feel. You overdid it. I've done that, too-and you are younger and fitter than I am, she said (I'm too lazy to punctuate-it hurts to lift my arms!). Well, I always overdo it. After such a long time that was just nuts. And then she said: don't worry, dear (I hate being called dear-unless the person calling me that is really, really close-and wouldn't do that because they would know that I hate being called "dear". Grrr!!). You will be fine by tomorrow. Well, perhaps not tomorrow. Or Sunday. Possibly by Monday. Then she looked me up and down and added: or Tuesday. And laughed, and I laughed, and I tried not to think uncharitable thoughts, since Ann was up on the ladder stacking shelves. We both said goodbye, and I thought as I was walking away that it was all fine, and that eventually she would probably fall off the ladder and break something, and then I could tell her when I see her that everything will be fine. In a couple of months. Maybe three. Or four.
I feel like I have strained every muscle in my body. Or possibly ruptured a few. Not only that, but I have aches in places where I didn't even know I had muscles (at least not ones I could strain by doing weight training!). Even my face hurts. How is that possible? I didn't lift any weights with my face! And I'm walking like I've just lost my virginity (yes, I can remember back that far!!).
By tomorrow I expect not to be bent over-or even folded over-and I will probably go back to the gym but I won't do quite so much. I could, of course, be very optimistic at this point, but we'll see. I could, of course, be so sore by tomorrow that I can't get out of bed-but I will let you know.
Oh-I got back and stuffed my face with a bag of Kettle Chips, and felt instantly better. Ow. Oink. Who cares? I worked it off, and that is my story and I'm sticking to it.
Boobs on Parade
I've lost a week-or, rather, I've misplaced a week. How very careless of me!
By the time I was finished with my infusions last Thursday-Guy Fawkes Day, when it rained and rather demolished any chance of fireworks- I got back and was so tired, I was pretty comatose. I didn't feel like doing anything-and, because it was pouring outside, I couldn't do anything (except be very, very pissed off).
I really didn't do anything at all for the next few days. I forced myself to walk as much as I could every day-and that is because I was too afraid not to walk, since I know that all the balance issues get so much worse with inactivity. There were fireworks on Friday, and on Saturday, and I walked outside to have a look-but apart from that I was essentially motionless. I read, I watched programs that I had taped (months ago), and I allowed myself to recover from all the tests, doctors, and waiting. The waiting, ah, the waiting-I still have no patience, and if there is a patience gene I was born without that one, too. Grrr. Welcome to the NHS: hurry up and wait. And now it's been all over the news: the NHS has missed all its' targets, cancer patients are not being treated, and junior doctors are about to go out on strike. Just so you know: the theory behind the NHS is a good one. In practice, it sucks.
Sunday was Remembrance Day, and Wednesday was Armistice Day. There were two minutes of silence on both days to remember the war dead. I felt so awful. You would think that the world would have learned something from war-but no, there is no peace anywhere. The motto seems to be: let's all kill each other. Every time we turn around, someone else has been slaughtered. And here we are, supposed to be the most intelligent life on earth. Uh-seriously??
Yesterday it was "boobs on parade". I went to the hospital (first time this week. Hooray) to see Steve, my boob man (technically my second boob man, if you count Mr. T, the oncologist). We had a frank and open discussion about changing the expanders and inserting the more permanent silicone implants. He is against, because he is concerned about my health. I am for, since I want everything to look pretty (aren't I vain!!), and to be more functional. So he will do the surgery, but I am on his waiting list and probably won't be able to have the swap until March or April. Lots of women are having reconstruction-and that is a good thing, in my opinion. I may not have perfection, but at least I am no longer flat chested; actually, I am no longer concave. In that respect, life is pretty good.
I still sound somewhat frog-like...but my voice is slowly coming back to normal. So, if I am going to make any dirty phone calls, I'd better do it now, while I am still growling.
That brings you up to date-and I am now on my way to the gym. First time in such a long time, I have a training session, so I will try not to get too gung-ho and rupture something. At least I can do chest exercises without worrying about one of the expanders winding up under my armpit. Now that would be interesting!
I'm being so good that I will have to celebrate returning to the gym with a bag of Kettle Chips: a large bag of Kettle Chips. People keep telling me I need to eat-so that's what I am going to do!
By the time I was finished with my infusions last Thursday-Guy Fawkes Day, when it rained and rather demolished any chance of fireworks- I got back and was so tired, I was pretty comatose. I didn't feel like doing anything-and, because it was pouring outside, I couldn't do anything (except be very, very pissed off).
I really didn't do anything at all for the next few days. I forced myself to walk as much as I could every day-and that is because I was too afraid not to walk, since I know that all the balance issues get so much worse with inactivity. There were fireworks on Friday, and on Saturday, and I walked outside to have a look-but apart from that I was essentially motionless. I read, I watched programs that I had taped (months ago), and I allowed myself to recover from all the tests, doctors, and waiting. The waiting, ah, the waiting-I still have no patience, and if there is a patience gene I was born without that one, too. Grrr. Welcome to the NHS: hurry up and wait. And now it's been all over the news: the NHS has missed all its' targets, cancer patients are not being treated, and junior doctors are about to go out on strike. Just so you know: the theory behind the NHS is a good one. In practice, it sucks.
Sunday was Remembrance Day, and Wednesday was Armistice Day. There were two minutes of silence on both days to remember the war dead. I felt so awful. You would think that the world would have learned something from war-but no, there is no peace anywhere. The motto seems to be: let's all kill each other. Every time we turn around, someone else has been slaughtered. And here we are, supposed to be the most intelligent life on earth. Uh-seriously??
Yesterday it was "boobs on parade". I went to the hospital (first time this week. Hooray) to see Steve, my boob man (technically my second boob man, if you count Mr. T, the oncologist). We had a frank and open discussion about changing the expanders and inserting the more permanent silicone implants. He is against, because he is concerned about my health. I am for, since I want everything to look pretty (aren't I vain!!), and to be more functional. So he will do the surgery, but I am on his waiting list and probably won't be able to have the swap until March or April. Lots of women are having reconstruction-and that is a good thing, in my opinion. I may not have perfection, but at least I am no longer flat chested; actually, I am no longer concave. In that respect, life is pretty good.
I still sound somewhat frog-like...but my voice is slowly coming back to normal. So, if I am going to make any dirty phone calls, I'd better do it now, while I am still growling.
That brings you up to date-and I am now on my way to the gym. First time in such a long time, I have a training session, so I will try not to get too gung-ho and rupture something. At least I can do chest exercises without worrying about one of the expanders winding up under my armpit. Now that would be interesting!
I'm being so good that I will have to celebrate returning to the gym with a bag of Kettle Chips: a large bag of Kettle Chips. People keep telling me I need to eat-so that's what I am going to do!
Wednesday, 4 November 2015
An Existential Crisis: Just Call Me Kermit
I'm telling people to call me Kermit-then, when they do, I want to smack them. Go figure...
The entire hospital experience was an absolute nightmare from start to finish. After my speedy post of last week, I was driven to the hospital and then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. And then I waited. You get the picture: I waited. Bad enough to wait (a silent NHS rule: everybody waits. Preferably until they die, and then the waiting list gets shorter), but I had to wait in a room filled with people who were coughing and sneezing-without covering their noses and mouths, something that really, really winds me up. I grew up with better manners than that, and I'm sure you did, too.
I finally was taken into a small treatment room and told to change my clothes-and everything I had with me was put into a big green bag and placed in a locked cabinet. I then-guess what?-waited some more. Finally, I had to walk to the elevators, and a nurse, another patient and I went to the third floor surgery waiting room. What did I do there? You guessed it: I waited. I couldn't believe I had to walk that far, either - I felt like I was walking the Green Mile, and I said to the nurse (only half-joking, but she didn't get it anyway) that I felt like I was walking to my own execution.
I finally walked down a long corridor and into the ante-room to the operating theatre. I was then prepped for surgery. And the room was filled with people. I was already nervous, but the sight of about eight people crushing each other didn't help. I asked if one of them was the undertaker. Honestly, they took me seriously! That did not bode well for what was coming, I have to say.
I then asked to see the consultant surgeon, since his name was on my appointment letter. Now I understand why there was only his name, and he was a phantom: he came out of the operating room, very grumpy, snapped "why do you want to see me?"-he had the bedside manner of Attila the Hun. And I said, because I want to know who is doing this operation, and I want to know who to come after if it all goes wrong. If you were in my place, wouldn't you want to meet the person who is shoving a tube down your throat? He grunted, and walked away. What a charmer. And it transpired that he didn't do the surgery anyway: it was performed by a registrar (I know because I badgered the registrar to tell me the truth afterwards). Boy, do I hate being lied to!!
I woke up in recovery, and I felt like someone must have punched me in the face while I was sedated. I know that didn't happen, but my head was really hurting, and my jaw felt like it had been yanked out of my skull. And I felt like someone had used a flame thrower on my throat. I couldn't swallow, I was in such pain I could hardly breathe, and I had to wait nearly nine hours-left on a gurney, not even put in a bed-until I was finally wheeled into a room where I was supposed to be monitored overnight. I wasn't monitored, and when I asked for pain medication, the nurses tried to give me paracetamol-the UK's version of Tylenol, which was about as useful as a bag of candy (at least candy would have been pleasant, although I couldn't eat anything anyway).
To say that I was royally pissed off at the shabby treatment is probably the understatement of the year-perhaps the decade-these people are supposed to care about patients, and put the welfare of patients first, and I fully understand why the NHS is in such a terrible state: because it sucks.
I got back to North London after six pm on Friday, and I really felt like crap. I wasn't supposed to be talking at all for at least the entire weekend, but I had to communicate with the staff on Thursday and Friday-and how do you do that if you aren't able to talk? I kept telling them what I needed, and they kept telling me to shut up. In retrospect, it beggars belief.
I was texting friends on Saturday, and whispering into the phone. It was almost funny-if I hadn't been in so much pain, it would have been funny. And Saturday was Halloween, I wanted to wish everyone a Happy Halloween, to draw a line under yet another month of medical ickiness- and instead, I was in bed, feeling terrible. So Halloween was happening all around me, and I bloody missed it.
Halloween has become really huge in this country, and that has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It's fun to see all the trick or treaters (I call them Halloweenies), walking with their parents, some of whom are also in costume. But-they're all witches, or princesses, or fairies, and that's just the boys. I keep waiting for someone to be dressed like the walkers out of The Walking Dead, and trying to do the walk, too. Now that would be really creative. Or, someone with a chainsaw (a working one, obviously-otherwise where is all the fun?)-today's Halloweenie, tomorrow's serial killer.
You can tell I'm sleep deprived, can't you?
So, to bring you up to date: I have been at the hospital for the last three days. I saw Mr. Tan on Monday, and had a session of bloodletting (bloodletting first), and Tan and I discussed the merits of changing the expanders for permanent implants (I'm going to push hard for that to happen). Then yesterday I spent the entire day being magnetized (head banging MRIs) and irradiated (another scan), And, of course, most of the time was spent -you guessed it-waiting! Today I was back to see another doctor, whom I only see twice a year (this is because I have CVID, so everyone seems to think it is so fascinating. I feel like a bug under a microscope, but hey, I'm just a patient, who cares about a patient?).
I'm happy and relieved to say that I am nearly finished with all this stuff. I get all the results back in a couple of weeks, and I'm pretty certain that everything is normal-well, of course, "normal" being a relative term, since all the irradiation will probably give me cancer anyway.
And, unfortunately, it is probably for the best that nobody come anywhere near me if they ever want children. I don't even glow in the dark, so that is the end of the hope that I will save a fortune on electricity. Bummer.
As for my throat: it is still very sore, although I no longer feel like I was punched in the face during surgery. And my voice? I sound like a frog-a bullfrog-if I sounded like Kermit, at least you would be able to hear me. I don't speak, I rasp. I did ask if I would sound like Lauren Bacall after surgery-I always wanted a deep voice. The doctor just looked at me, pityingly. No, he said, you won't. Well, what a waste of my time, then!!
The only good thing is that I get to eat ice cream without feeling guilty...
The entire hospital experience was an absolute nightmare from start to finish. After my speedy post of last week, I was driven to the hospital and then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. And then I waited. You get the picture: I waited. Bad enough to wait (a silent NHS rule: everybody waits. Preferably until they die, and then the waiting list gets shorter), but I had to wait in a room filled with people who were coughing and sneezing-without covering their noses and mouths, something that really, really winds me up. I grew up with better manners than that, and I'm sure you did, too.
I finally was taken into a small treatment room and told to change my clothes-and everything I had with me was put into a big green bag and placed in a locked cabinet. I then-guess what?-waited some more. Finally, I had to walk to the elevators, and a nurse, another patient and I went to the third floor surgery waiting room. What did I do there? You guessed it: I waited. I couldn't believe I had to walk that far, either - I felt like I was walking the Green Mile, and I said to the nurse (only half-joking, but she didn't get it anyway) that I felt like I was walking to my own execution.
I finally walked down a long corridor and into the ante-room to the operating theatre. I was then prepped for surgery. And the room was filled with people. I was already nervous, but the sight of about eight people crushing each other didn't help. I asked if one of them was the undertaker. Honestly, they took me seriously! That did not bode well for what was coming, I have to say.
I then asked to see the consultant surgeon, since his name was on my appointment letter. Now I understand why there was only his name, and he was a phantom: he came out of the operating room, very grumpy, snapped "why do you want to see me?"-he had the bedside manner of Attila the Hun. And I said, because I want to know who is doing this operation, and I want to know who to come after if it all goes wrong. If you were in my place, wouldn't you want to meet the person who is shoving a tube down your throat? He grunted, and walked away. What a charmer. And it transpired that he didn't do the surgery anyway: it was performed by a registrar (I know because I badgered the registrar to tell me the truth afterwards). Boy, do I hate being lied to!!
I woke up in recovery, and I felt like someone must have punched me in the face while I was sedated. I know that didn't happen, but my head was really hurting, and my jaw felt like it had been yanked out of my skull. And I felt like someone had used a flame thrower on my throat. I couldn't swallow, I was in such pain I could hardly breathe, and I had to wait nearly nine hours-left on a gurney, not even put in a bed-until I was finally wheeled into a room where I was supposed to be monitored overnight. I wasn't monitored, and when I asked for pain medication, the nurses tried to give me paracetamol-the UK's version of Tylenol, which was about as useful as a bag of candy (at least candy would have been pleasant, although I couldn't eat anything anyway).
To say that I was royally pissed off at the shabby treatment is probably the understatement of the year-perhaps the decade-these people are supposed to care about patients, and put the welfare of patients first, and I fully understand why the NHS is in such a terrible state: because it sucks.
I got back to North London after six pm on Friday, and I really felt like crap. I wasn't supposed to be talking at all for at least the entire weekend, but I had to communicate with the staff on Thursday and Friday-and how do you do that if you aren't able to talk? I kept telling them what I needed, and they kept telling me to shut up. In retrospect, it beggars belief.
I was texting friends on Saturday, and whispering into the phone. It was almost funny-if I hadn't been in so much pain, it would have been funny. And Saturday was Halloween, I wanted to wish everyone a Happy Halloween, to draw a line under yet another month of medical ickiness- and instead, I was in bed, feeling terrible. So Halloween was happening all around me, and I bloody missed it.
Halloween has become really huge in this country, and that has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It's fun to see all the trick or treaters (I call them Halloweenies), walking with their parents, some of whom are also in costume. But-they're all witches, or princesses, or fairies, and that's just the boys. I keep waiting for someone to be dressed like the walkers out of The Walking Dead, and trying to do the walk, too. Now that would be really creative. Or, someone with a chainsaw (a working one, obviously-otherwise where is all the fun?)-today's Halloweenie, tomorrow's serial killer.
You can tell I'm sleep deprived, can't you?
So, to bring you up to date: I have been at the hospital for the last three days. I saw Mr. Tan on Monday, and had a session of bloodletting (bloodletting first), and Tan and I discussed the merits of changing the expanders for permanent implants (I'm going to push hard for that to happen). Then yesterday I spent the entire day being magnetized (head banging MRIs) and irradiated (another scan), And, of course, most of the time was spent -you guessed it-waiting! Today I was back to see another doctor, whom I only see twice a year (this is because I have CVID, so everyone seems to think it is so fascinating. I feel like a bug under a microscope, but hey, I'm just a patient, who cares about a patient?).
I'm happy and relieved to say that I am nearly finished with all this stuff. I get all the results back in a couple of weeks, and I'm pretty certain that everything is normal-well, of course, "normal" being a relative term, since all the irradiation will probably give me cancer anyway.
And, unfortunately, it is probably for the best that nobody come anywhere near me if they ever want children. I don't even glow in the dark, so that is the end of the hope that I will save a fortune on electricity. Bummer.
As for my throat: it is still very sore, although I no longer feel like I was punched in the face during surgery. And my voice? I sound like a frog-a bullfrog-if I sounded like Kermit, at least you would be able to hear me. I don't speak, I rasp. I did ask if I would sound like Lauren Bacall after surgery-I always wanted a deep voice. The doctor just looked at me, pityingly. No, he said, you won't. Well, what a waste of my time, then!!
The only good thing is that I get to eat ice cream without feeling guilty...
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