I missed the chance of saying Merry Christmas. Late. As usual. Turns out that a lot of people I know procrastinate just as shamefully as I do-so a very late Merry Christmas, and I hope that everyone ate too much, drank too much, filled the swear box to overflowing...and there you go.
But New Year's-that is a different story. I wish everyone a very happy, healthy, prosperous and (reasonably) trauma-free 2018. I expect that everyone will be celebrating tomorrow night, in one way or another, in company or solo. Me, I will be celebrating-solo.I'll be watching some of the huge load of stuff I saved over the past few months (just tape everything. You can always go back and delete it later. I always do. So why bother? Beats me!).
Or-I might just start wading through the 2,000 plus emails that are languishing in my inbox. Most of them are absolute garbage, and can be deleted. But-ah, but-there are some that are good to read and keep. Or even read and delete. But to get to those, I have to trawl through a load of crap. Oh, joy. My delete finger will be getting a workout. In fact, I should probably email Microsoft and say thanks for the carpal tunnel.
If this year has been as traumatic for you as it has been for me, let's all drink a toast to burying 2017-down a hole, never to be seen or heard from again. I've had eight years like that-and I'm determined that I won't be making it nine years. I doubt that my constitution can stand it.
I'm not even making any New Year's resolutions-because I break them within the first week of the new year. We can make resolutions any time-why wait until the end of the year, when our stress levels are through the roof, and we promise ourselves that we will do things that we probably will never do? So-no resolutions.
Well-maybe just one: I promise myself that I will not carry 2017 over into 2018. It's the start of a new year, and I really, really need to learn to leave the past where it belongs: in the past.
I remember years ago, when I tore the ligament in my ankle (very, very nasty and painful), but didn't want to go to the hospital. Hospitals are bad for you: full of sick people. So I went along to a Chinese acupuncturist and herbalist called Dr.Chen. He was around 85 years old then, so he'll either be dead now or very, very, very old. Chen needled me, gave me some Chinese herbs, and told me that my biggest problem is that I'm unable (and/or unwilling) to let go of the past, and I'm carrying that into my present, as well as making myself a miserable future. He said that in China even something that happened a moment ago is in the past, and they know to let go of it and not dwell on it again. And he said that he got to a very healthy 85 by living by those principles.
Okay, so-whatever. That was good advice, I was maybe - 20 or 25 at the time - and did I follow it? Oh, hell no-since when do I follow anyone's advice-even my own?
So Happy New Year. Celebrate. If you're on your own, celebrate that, because there are worse things. Trust me, I know this from experience. Celebrate, release the past as much as you can, do a ritual-if all else fails, just get loaded. You'll pay for it on New Year's Day-but who cares?
Saturday, 30 December 2017
Tuesday, 12 December 2017
In a galaxy, far, far away...
Somewhere there are people with manners and intelligence that is measurable into double figures. Somewhere there are men with both balls and brains. But this is Britain-so somewhere isn't here, that's for sure. Did you know that people tried to put on the nativity (plays, films, television) but they couldn't do it?
They couldn't show the nativity because they couldn't find three wise men and a virgin.
Well, obviously.
I know that Christmas is stressful: people spending too much, the joy (yeah, right?) of shopping, what to eat, where to shop-and so on. Plus, people suddenly turn even more Neanderthal than usual when it comes to the sales. Just ask those who have been beaten to a pulp because someone else wanted the same item, and was willing to kill for it.
That is the downside of Christmas. And, although there are some pretty bad memories of Christmases past, I still find it a magical time of the year. Why? Who knows? Maybe after so many years I'm developing the British disease known as brain death.
I remember when I was a child (yes, I can remember back that far. They had invented the wheel by then), being driven around our neighborhood and looking at all the decorations outside the houses. Lights, beautifully done, trees decorated-one house had a Santa and his reindeer, the sleigh, the whole business, beautifully lit. When you're a child, all the lights and decorations are really impressive. You only become jaded when you grow up.
I can remember decorating the tree, and wanting to put the angel on top-but I was too short, so someone else had to do it. We even had tinsel fights: there was tinsel everywhere, even on the tree (eventually).
What I remember best was Christmas dinner. All the cousins sat in one little area while the adults got loaded on-well, anything alcoholic they could get their hands on. I had an uncle Artie, who was an alcoholic, and he would doze off mid-meal. That was the sign for all us kids to take stuffing balls, bread rolls, anything we could find-and hurl them at him. When the adults weren't looking, it was a food fight. It was great fun for us-but not so much fun for Artie.
We had our first snowfall in London this year. Sunday it came down in sheets, lasted for hours, and made it impossible to go out and do anything. I watched, because I love watching snow fall-it's the aftermath (black ice) that I don't like very much. So I sat and watched for awhile. It was beautiful-and then I watched some of the shows I taped months ago, promising myself that I would catch up eventually. Most of the time I tape stuff and then end up deleting it months later.
It's mostly clear now, although a lot of pavements are still very slippery. It's also -3 Celsius, which is-bloody cold. And I'm on my way to Tai Chi. Let's see how well I do after two days of doing nothing. Fingers crossed that I don't fall and break something...
They couldn't show the nativity because they couldn't find three wise men and a virgin.
Well, obviously.
I know that Christmas is stressful: people spending too much, the joy (yeah, right?) of shopping, what to eat, where to shop-and so on. Plus, people suddenly turn even more Neanderthal than usual when it comes to the sales. Just ask those who have been beaten to a pulp because someone else wanted the same item, and was willing to kill for it.
That is the downside of Christmas. And, although there are some pretty bad memories of Christmases past, I still find it a magical time of the year. Why? Who knows? Maybe after so many years I'm developing the British disease known as brain death.
I remember when I was a child (yes, I can remember back that far. They had invented the wheel by then), being driven around our neighborhood and looking at all the decorations outside the houses. Lights, beautifully done, trees decorated-one house had a Santa and his reindeer, the sleigh, the whole business, beautifully lit. When you're a child, all the lights and decorations are really impressive. You only become jaded when you grow up.
I can remember decorating the tree, and wanting to put the angel on top-but I was too short, so someone else had to do it. We even had tinsel fights: there was tinsel everywhere, even on the tree (eventually).
What I remember best was Christmas dinner. All the cousins sat in one little area while the adults got loaded on-well, anything alcoholic they could get their hands on. I had an uncle Artie, who was an alcoholic, and he would doze off mid-meal. That was the sign for all us kids to take stuffing balls, bread rolls, anything we could find-and hurl them at him. When the adults weren't looking, it was a food fight. It was great fun for us-but not so much fun for Artie.
We had our first snowfall in London this year. Sunday it came down in sheets, lasted for hours, and made it impossible to go out and do anything. I watched, because I love watching snow fall-it's the aftermath (black ice) that I don't like very much. So I sat and watched for awhile. It was beautiful-and then I watched some of the shows I taped months ago, promising myself that I would catch up eventually. Most of the time I tape stuff and then end up deleting it months later.
It's mostly clear now, although a lot of pavements are still very slippery. It's also -3 Celsius, which is-bloody cold. And I'm on my way to Tai Chi. Let's see how well I do after two days of doing nothing. Fingers crossed that I don't fall and break something...
Friday, 8 December 2017
Icicles on my bicycles
This is definitely brass monkey weather. If you're new to this blog, there is a saying over here that it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. Brrr...my friends over the Pond will laugh at me, since it just about goes a couple of degrees above zero (Celsius)-but hey. Cold is cold.
'Tis the season to be maudlin. I see so many miserable people while I am out and about: bad tempered, grumpy, weepy, and all the rest of the seven dwarfs. It's most definitely Christmas.
I'm gearing up for the holiday by just keeping my head down-the best thing I can do over here, since Trump the imbecile seems determined to start a war with North Korea and another one in the Middle East. Americans are targets here anyway-but do I get a lot of abuse, or what? I'll have to say I'm Canadian. Better still, I'll just point to my throat and say I have laryngitis-for at least a year, or until that oaf in the oval office either leaves or dies. Isn't life becoming really, really interesting?
Another couple of weeks and Tai Chi finishes for this term; that same week I go to see my physiotherapist, and we will see how well I'm doing with my exercises. I've been really off balance since the surgery, and fighting hard to get back what I lost after all those complications-so we'll see how I do. You'll know when I know-unless it's bad news, in which case I will have to hide for awhile-possibly forever.
I had a long talk with my friend Jane, whom I've known for more than twenty years. I said that I really feel socially inept after eight years of being in battle mode. I haven't had time to even think about anything else but surviving, let alone making friends along the way. Her suggestion was to wait until January, when everyone is weeping over the overdraft, and the bills that will be coming in January-either that or they'll be seriously hung over. Then, she said, go find some classes. Go back to the museum and listen to some lectures. Go find something I like to do, or a skill I would like to learn. That's good advice. Of course, hang gliding is out of the question-so is anything that could cause me to smash myself up or keel over. I'll be thinking about that over the next few weeks. I'm close to making cleaning the kitchen and doing the laundry spectator sports-so I've got to get cracking and do some housework before my dust bunnies have litters. Oh, to live in a place where there's no dust (yeah, dream on).
We're pretty much up to date. I went to see my friend in Essex yesterday (ah, Essex-Braindead Central), and saw the results of a really bad crash: this car had the driver's side completely wiped out. I don't know if there were fatalities, but I did see two men fighting it out as I was walking past. You couldn't miss it-I had to step past it to get to my friend's place.
'Tis the season to be fighting. If I can stay out of trouble, I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile-I'm off to Starbucks. I heard on the news this morning that Starbucks is opening one store every nine days in China. Every nine days-how about that. Tempting, but no, Iceland seems to be a much better bet, don't you think?
'Tis the season to be maudlin. I see so many miserable people while I am out and about: bad tempered, grumpy, weepy, and all the rest of the seven dwarfs. It's most definitely Christmas.
I'm gearing up for the holiday by just keeping my head down-the best thing I can do over here, since Trump the imbecile seems determined to start a war with North Korea and another one in the Middle East. Americans are targets here anyway-but do I get a lot of abuse, or what? I'll have to say I'm Canadian. Better still, I'll just point to my throat and say I have laryngitis-for at least a year, or until that oaf in the oval office either leaves or dies. Isn't life becoming really, really interesting?
Another couple of weeks and Tai Chi finishes for this term; that same week I go to see my physiotherapist, and we will see how well I'm doing with my exercises. I've been really off balance since the surgery, and fighting hard to get back what I lost after all those complications-so we'll see how I do. You'll know when I know-unless it's bad news, in which case I will have to hide for awhile-possibly forever.
I had a long talk with my friend Jane, whom I've known for more than twenty years. I said that I really feel socially inept after eight years of being in battle mode. I haven't had time to even think about anything else but surviving, let alone making friends along the way. Her suggestion was to wait until January, when everyone is weeping over the overdraft, and the bills that will be coming in January-either that or they'll be seriously hung over. Then, she said, go find some classes. Go back to the museum and listen to some lectures. Go find something I like to do, or a skill I would like to learn. That's good advice. Of course, hang gliding is out of the question-so is anything that could cause me to smash myself up or keel over. I'll be thinking about that over the next few weeks. I'm close to making cleaning the kitchen and doing the laundry spectator sports-so I've got to get cracking and do some housework before my dust bunnies have litters. Oh, to live in a place where there's no dust (yeah, dream on).
We're pretty much up to date. I went to see my friend in Essex yesterday (ah, Essex-Braindead Central), and saw the results of a really bad crash: this car had the driver's side completely wiped out. I don't know if there were fatalities, but I did see two men fighting it out as I was walking past. You couldn't miss it-I had to step past it to get to my friend's place.
'Tis the season to be fighting. If I can stay out of trouble, I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile-I'm off to Starbucks. I heard on the news this morning that Starbucks is opening one store every nine days in China. Every nine days-how about that. Tempting, but no, Iceland seems to be a much better bet, don't you think?
Friday, 24 November 2017
Head + rectum + remove = fill in the dots
I told you last time that I was going to pull my head out of my behind and start living-and not too soon, either.
Fighting words, delivered two days before Thanksgiving. So I did something I didn't do even when I was in New York: I went around the corner to Pizza Express and I had a pepperoni pizza. Bonkers, or what? New York is the home of pizza, calzones, cannolis-but I didn't have a single slice, I waited until this week.
I don't eat much junk food-usually-but I'm one of those people who, when depressed, eats everything that is edible and isn't nailed down. It's usually Kettle Chips-which, strictly speaking, constitute one of your five a day (vegetables. That's my story and I'm sticking to it). I had those, too-not together, obviously.
Now-when I was home I had Popeyes, which, as I wrote, is like Kentucky Fried Chicken but with chicken (I hope!) and without the food poisoning (trust me, I know). Popeyes? Pizza Express? Absolutely delicious. With every bite I could feel my arteries harden and my cholesterol go through the roof. All that saturated fat. All those chemicals. All that salt (sugar, too. Mustn't forget the sugar). Yum!! Life is far too short to start worrying about cholesterol and arteries.
Unfortunately, my pigging out had consequences. I was so bloated that I looked like I was ready to give birth to a brontosaurus. And the pizza, delicious as it was, generated enough gas to launch the Hindenburg. I could easily have blown myself over to Paris for the weekend-and probably blown myself back, too. Pigging out is a good thing, anyway. I don't do it all the time; if I had pizza or fried chicken every day I would be twice the size of an airship. Someone could paint advertising on my side and just let me fly.
But by yesterday afternoon I was back to normal, and I'm advising you-just in case you're looking for permission from someone (anyone), you've got it. Going overboard once a year-even once a month-makes all this eating clean stuff tolerable. But only just. Tomorrow we could be hit by a bus-struck by lightning-be smack in the middle of a terrorist attack. Hardly the time to be worrying about calories.
On Wednesday I was getting ready to cook the turkey and do all the vegetables the next day-but the best laid plans, and all that. I got a call from an old friend who was in my cancer group: Sue was one of the people who had a worse time than I did, and we cheered each other up. We went our separate ways, although every Christmas we call each other to catch up. On Wednesday I knew there was bad news: we only have a chat every December.
Sue's husband is terminal, and this will be his last Christmas-if he makes it that far. So Sue, knowing that Thursday was Thanksgiving, decided to throw him a Thanksgiving party. They're both English, so that surprised me-but she said that she'd like me to attend, even though she only put the whole thing together the day before. I'm her favorite American, she said. What, was it either me or Trump?
It was great fun, and nobody wanted to mention any health issues. There were six of us, one American, four English and one Irish (sounds like a lunch menu). We all were grateful for a lot, and we went around the table to talk about it. It turns out that I am really lucky, and I have about a dozen reasons to be very, very grateful. Plus I cracked jokes, and everyone found them funny, which is another reason to be grateful. Coping mechanism: it really does work. So do Kettle Chips.
Well, that is me done for another Thanksgiving, and I hope that everyone reading this had a good one, too, no matter where you were or what you were doing. Tomorrow I get to cook another turkey-Sue had bought three, so she asked me not to bring anything, or they would be eating turkey, veg, potatoes, and whatever until mid-December.
Here we come: turkey sandwiches, turkey curry, a hundred ways to cook turkey. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, it's Black Friday, and you would think that there were some real sales out there, the way that people are pushing and shoving. All in the Christmas spirit.
I'm keeping my head down, and going to Starbucks.
Fighting words, delivered two days before Thanksgiving. So I did something I didn't do even when I was in New York: I went around the corner to Pizza Express and I had a pepperoni pizza. Bonkers, or what? New York is the home of pizza, calzones, cannolis-but I didn't have a single slice, I waited until this week.
I don't eat much junk food-usually-but I'm one of those people who, when depressed, eats everything that is edible and isn't nailed down. It's usually Kettle Chips-which, strictly speaking, constitute one of your five a day (vegetables. That's my story and I'm sticking to it). I had those, too-not together, obviously.
Now-when I was home I had Popeyes, which, as I wrote, is like Kentucky Fried Chicken but with chicken (I hope!) and without the food poisoning (trust me, I know). Popeyes? Pizza Express? Absolutely delicious. With every bite I could feel my arteries harden and my cholesterol go through the roof. All that saturated fat. All those chemicals. All that salt (sugar, too. Mustn't forget the sugar). Yum!! Life is far too short to start worrying about cholesterol and arteries.
Unfortunately, my pigging out had consequences. I was so bloated that I looked like I was ready to give birth to a brontosaurus. And the pizza, delicious as it was, generated enough gas to launch the Hindenburg. I could easily have blown myself over to Paris for the weekend-and probably blown myself back, too. Pigging out is a good thing, anyway. I don't do it all the time; if I had pizza or fried chicken every day I would be twice the size of an airship. Someone could paint advertising on my side and just let me fly.
But by yesterday afternoon I was back to normal, and I'm advising you-just in case you're looking for permission from someone (anyone), you've got it. Going overboard once a year-even once a month-makes all this eating clean stuff tolerable. But only just. Tomorrow we could be hit by a bus-struck by lightning-be smack in the middle of a terrorist attack. Hardly the time to be worrying about calories.
On Wednesday I was getting ready to cook the turkey and do all the vegetables the next day-but the best laid plans, and all that. I got a call from an old friend who was in my cancer group: Sue was one of the people who had a worse time than I did, and we cheered each other up. We went our separate ways, although every Christmas we call each other to catch up. On Wednesday I knew there was bad news: we only have a chat every December.
Sue's husband is terminal, and this will be his last Christmas-if he makes it that far. So Sue, knowing that Thursday was Thanksgiving, decided to throw him a Thanksgiving party. They're both English, so that surprised me-but she said that she'd like me to attend, even though she only put the whole thing together the day before. I'm her favorite American, she said. What, was it either me or Trump?
It was great fun, and nobody wanted to mention any health issues. There were six of us, one American, four English and one Irish (sounds like a lunch menu). We all were grateful for a lot, and we went around the table to talk about it. It turns out that I am really lucky, and I have about a dozen reasons to be very, very grateful. Plus I cracked jokes, and everyone found them funny, which is another reason to be grateful. Coping mechanism: it really does work. So do Kettle Chips.
Well, that is me done for another Thanksgiving, and I hope that everyone reading this had a good one, too, no matter where you were or what you were doing. Tomorrow I get to cook another turkey-Sue had bought three, so she asked me not to bring anything, or they would be eating turkey, veg, potatoes, and whatever until mid-December.
Here we come: turkey sandwiches, turkey curry, a hundred ways to cook turkey. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, it's Black Friday, and you would think that there were some real sales out there, the way that people are pushing and shoving. All in the Christmas spirit.
I'm keeping my head down, and going to Starbucks.
Tuesday, 21 November 2017
Life goes on-even with one's head up one's own rectum
That's about right: I've been on automatic pilot - and in survival mode - for the past seven and a half years. And when I haven't been struggling to survive, I've been wandering around with my head firmly lodged up my ass. That is the only possible explanation for being where I am now.
I returned from New York a month ago-as my friend from New York reminded me last week. Since I got back, I went for all my appointments (not many, since I seem to be in terrific health, or so I was told by one of the consultants last week-which made me as happy as can be, as you can imagine), but came back and did-precisely nothing. Automatic pilot? I've been like a walking, talking, eating, crapping robot. I get up, do the same thing, head out, do the same thing (mostly wait. It's the NHS: hurry up and wait. For hours. And the NHS will be history, sooner rather than later).
So I decided that I am clearly depressed. No kidding: after all I've been through, without really processing it all at the time, no wonder I'm depressed. And it's November. I'm always down for the last quarter of each year. It isn't SAD, the trendy disorder where people get down because there is so little light. I've diagnosed myself: I'm down because I feel like I haven't accomplished anything.
What on earth-said my friend from New York-do I expect? To end poverty? Find cures for all cancers-and all other diseases - HIV, hunger, homelessness, domestic abuse, genocide, homicide, suicide, and, of course, while I am at it maybe I could take the time to write that best-selling novel...
I had to smile at that-I still have a sense of humor after all this time, since it is my coping mechanism. And it usually works-not always, but most of the time. This time, it did.
Thanksgiving is on Thursday (Happy Thanksgiving, in case I have one of those pre-senior moments and forget to write tomorrow. Or whenever). So I have decided to take the day, celebrate with a traditional Thanksgiving dinner (doing my best not to burn the turkey or blow up the kitchen. I did well last year, so I should do even better this year).
There will be a turkey-so there will be turkey salad, turkey sandwiches, turkey burgers, and turkey soup-for at least another week, and I will be glad to see the back of anything turkey - until Christmas, when it will start all over again. Hmmm...turkey curry? Turkey fricasee? I'll just get creative...
One thing I really want to do is spend the day - or part of the day - meditating. I'm really lucky that |I am still alive and in reasonable health. I'm lucky that, after seven and a half (nearly eight) years, I can walk without falling over -most of the time, or until some imbecile crashes into me. I very nearly died at the hands of the incompetent cripplers at Barts and the Royal London. Nearly-but they didn't succeed. I came uncomfortably close with breast cancer. Again: nearly. Close, but no cigar, as they say (actually they say close, but no banana, but I've got no idea who started that one).
Giving thanks and realizing how lucky I am - so important right now, when I'm feeling down, and irascible, and spiky and generally pissed off with life and the state of the world.
Thankful? I'm still here, and what a difference between 2017 and 2010. What a difference! If I'm still here, and I've fought this hard to get here-and stay here- there must be a reason for it. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing, but I do know that as long as I wander around aimlessly and with my head up my ass I am not likely to find out.
So that is what I will be doing on Thursday: cooking. Eating. Drinking (well, I don't drink alcohol that often, so I'll be doing some of that). And-pulling my head out of my ass so I can start doing what I was robbed of doing seven and a half years ago: living.
Happy Thanksgiving. No punching, kicking, scratching or slapping. Peace for one day-unless someone really pisses you off. Then kick them hard, where it hurts the most. And run.
I returned from New York a month ago-as my friend from New York reminded me last week. Since I got back, I went for all my appointments (not many, since I seem to be in terrific health, or so I was told by one of the consultants last week-which made me as happy as can be, as you can imagine), but came back and did-precisely nothing. Automatic pilot? I've been like a walking, talking, eating, crapping robot. I get up, do the same thing, head out, do the same thing (mostly wait. It's the NHS: hurry up and wait. For hours. And the NHS will be history, sooner rather than later).
So I decided that I am clearly depressed. No kidding: after all I've been through, without really processing it all at the time, no wonder I'm depressed. And it's November. I'm always down for the last quarter of each year. It isn't SAD, the trendy disorder where people get down because there is so little light. I've diagnosed myself: I'm down because I feel like I haven't accomplished anything.
What on earth-said my friend from New York-do I expect? To end poverty? Find cures for all cancers-and all other diseases - HIV, hunger, homelessness, domestic abuse, genocide, homicide, suicide, and, of course, while I am at it maybe I could take the time to write that best-selling novel...
I had to smile at that-I still have a sense of humor after all this time, since it is my coping mechanism. And it usually works-not always, but most of the time. This time, it did.
Thanksgiving is on Thursday (Happy Thanksgiving, in case I have one of those pre-senior moments and forget to write tomorrow. Or whenever). So I have decided to take the day, celebrate with a traditional Thanksgiving dinner (doing my best not to burn the turkey or blow up the kitchen. I did well last year, so I should do even better this year).
There will be a turkey-so there will be turkey salad, turkey sandwiches, turkey burgers, and turkey soup-for at least another week, and I will be glad to see the back of anything turkey - until Christmas, when it will start all over again. Hmmm...turkey curry? Turkey fricasee? I'll just get creative...
One thing I really want to do is spend the day - or part of the day - meditating. I'm really lucky that |I am still alive and in reasonable health. I'm lucky that, after seven and a half (nearly eight) years, I can walk without falling over -most of the time, or until some imbecile crashes into me. I very nearly died at the hands of the incompetent cripplers at Barts and the Royal London. Nearly-but they didn't succeed. I came uncomfortably close with breast cancer. Again: nearly. Close, but no cigar, as they say (actually they say close, but no banana, but I've got no idea who started that one).
Giving thanks and realizing how lucky I am - so important right now, when I'm feeling down, and irascible, and spiky and generally pissed off with life and the state of the world.
Thankful? I'm still here, and what a difference between 2017 and 2010. What a difference! If I'm still here, and I've fought this hard to get here-and stay here- there must be a reason for it. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing, but I do know that as long as I wander around aimlessly and with my head up my ass I am not likely to find out.
So that is what I will be doing on Thursday: cooking. Eating. Drinking (well, I don't drink alcohol that often, so I'll be doing some of that). And-pulling my head out of my ass so I can start doing what I was robbed of doing seven and a half years ago: living.
Happy Thanksgiving. No punching, kicking, scratching or slapping. Peace for one day-unless someone really pisses you off. Then kick them hard, where it hurts the most. And run.
Saturday, 4 November 2017
Buckle up, tempus fugit
I've heard that for most of my life: tempus fugit (time flies). I always thought that I would have more time, and that my life would turn out just the way I wanted, within the time frame I wanted. Not so.
I had my little pity party when I got back from New York...really, that was more than enough. It was so underwhelming that I had to take a long walk on Wednesday and kick a few brick walls, and then I felt better (except for a sore foot).
Tempus really does fugit. I had a few sleepless nights, and realized in the middle of the night (last night; some people can be really slow learners sometimes) that I've lived more than half my life in this country, and that it looks like I will remain here for the duration. Thanks to the cripplers (Hilary Longhurst, Sofia Grigoriadou, Phil Bright-or, rather, not-so-bright- and the spouse beating pedophile Matt "Bucky" Buckland, I would have a really tough time finding work back home. I find it difficult to find work here, never mind going home and starting all over again. Gentamicin, breast cancer, numerous surgeries-it's been a really rough ride.
I calculated-in the middle of the night, of course, when I do my best thinking and agonizing about life-that it has been a horrendous seven and a half years. Horrendous. But I managed to get through it, and although I'm missing a few body parts, I still have all my vital parts. What a bonus.
I also calculated the amount of time-in years-that I have spent procrastinating, rather than living. I didn't learn this lesson fully when I discovered I had breast cancer four and a half years ago; some people take a long time to learn something really important like that, and I'm obviously one of them.
So, lesson well and truly learned. There is nobody around to give me a kick up the backside (figuratively speaking, of course!), so I have to give myself a kick. I've told myself to buckle up, step up and start living the way I want, do what I can do and accept that there are some things I will probably never be able to do again. Well, boohoo. I'm not the only person in the world who has been damaged by other people's incompetence-not the first, and, sadly, not the last.
Seven and a half years-that is a long time to hang onto resentment. Five minutes is a long time to hang onto resentment. It's very difficult to live in the moment, unless you're the Dalai Lama, or someone who lives on a mountain top and has nothing to do with people. But I am working on it.
In the meantime, there is a big world out there, I've missed it over the past decade or so, and once time passes it is gone and can never be recaptured.
Huh. I'll let you know how I'm doing. Them's fighting words: get back in the saddle and start living, and who gives a damn what other people think? That's a lesson I finally learned: if they don't pay my bills, their opinion doesn't count.
I'm off to walk in the pouring rain-something I haven't been able to do since gentamicin, something that I find so difficult that I avoid it at all costs. Meh. It's only rain. And Starbucks is calling...
Oh, yes, and I forgot to blog on yet another holiday, so Happy Halloween. Late. And Happy Thanksgiving. Very early, just in case. (Nah, that is one I will remember. In time, too.)
I had my little pity party when I got back from New York...really, that was more than enough. It was so underwhelming that I had to take a long walk on Wednesday and kick a few brick walls, and then I felt better (except for a sore foot).
Tempus really does fugit. I had a few sleepless nights, and realized in the middle of the night (last night; some people can be really slow learners sometimes) that I've lived more than half my life in this country, and that it looks like I will remain here for the duration. Thanks to the cripplers (Hilary Longhurst, Sofia Grigoriadou, Phil Bright-or, rather, not-so-bright- and the spouse beating pedophile Matt "Bucky" Buckland, I would have a really tough time finding work back home. I find it difficult to find work here, never mind going home and starting all over again. Gentamicin, breast cancer, numerous surgeries-it's been a really rough ride.
I calculated-in the middle of the night, of course, when I do my best thinking and agonizing about life-that it has been a horrendous seven and a half years. Horrendous. But I managed to get through it, and although I'm missing a few body parts, I still have all my vital parts. What a bonus.
I also calculated the amount of time-in years-that I have spent procrastinating, rather than living. I didn't learn this lesson fully when I discovered I had breast cancer four and a half years ago; some people take a long time to learn something really important like that, and I'm obviously one of them.
So, lesson well and truly learned. There is nobody around to give me a kick up the backside (figuratively speaking, of course!), so I have to give myself a kick. I've told myself to buckle up, step up and start living the way I want, do what I can do and accept that there are some things I will probably never be able to do again. Well, boohoo. I'm not the only person in the world who has been damaged by other people's incompetence-not the first, and, sadly, not the last.
Seven and a half years-that is a long time to hang onto resentment. Five minutes is a long time to hang onto resentment. It's very difficult to live in the moment, unless you're the Dalai Lama, or someone who lives on a mountain top and has nothing to do with people. But I am working on it.
In the meantime, there is a big world out there, I've missed it over the past decade or so, and once time passes it is gone and can never be recaptured.
Huh. I'll let you know how I'm doing. Them's fighting words: get back in the saddle and start living, and who gives a damn what other people think? That's a lesson I finally learned: if they don't pay my bills, their opinion doesn't count.
I'm off to walk in the pouring rain-something I haven't been able to do since gentamicin, something that I find so difficult that I avoid it at all costs. Meh. It's only rain. And Starbucks is calling...
Oh, yes, and I forgot to blog on yet another holiday, so Happy Halloween. Late. And Happy Thanksgiving. Very early, just in case. (Nah, that is one I will remember. In time, too.)
Wednesday, 1 November 2017
The stomach has landed
It feels like I have never been away-and I just got back last Wednesday. What an ordeal it was, too.
The plane was delayed-by three hours-due to weather conditions coming up from Atlanta. Then there was turbulence. But, thank goodness, I didn't have anyone sitting next to me-and nobody farting (not that I could tell, anyway) all the way across the Atlantic. So that was a good thing.Ish.
Heathrow was chaotic, of course-so was JFK. All the big airports seem to be always packed. But at JFK there were men with big guns; at Heathrow there was no sign of security. They were there-I hope-I just didn't see them. And when I got out, got my case and decided to take the underground, then the problems surfaced. I discovered my limitations the hard-and painful-way. I was taking the escalator down to the underground level when my suitcase wheel caught on the bottom of the escalator-and both the case and I went flying backwards, and I landed on my back, on the escalator, hitting my head pretty hard. I was lucky, though-someone behind me helped me up and made sure I was okay. The young man was Australian, as it turned out-obviously he wasn't English, or he would have just stepped over me (or on me), and probably sworn at me and kicked me out of the way.
I managed the tortuous journey back to North London, taking the London Underground and getting off a few stops short of my station; this was due to the fact that this station had a lift (elevator) to the street, so I didn't have to struggle with a 50 pound suitcase up several sets of steps to the top. Someone still hasn't figured out that there are people who, for one reason or another, can't actually walk up a lot of steps. I didn't have that problem in New York, even without a suitcase.
So I got back, my friend and I celebrated at the pub, she went back up north, and I sat, dazed, knowing that if everything was as it always was when I went overseas, I was in for five days of horrendous jet lag.
Yep-true to form, I was in London, but my stomach was in New York. I was here physically-ish-but my biological clock was very, very confused. And Thursday I had to go for my infusions, so you can imagine what a joy that wasn't! But it all worked out, I did walk as much as I could, and I managed not to fall into oncoming traffic. I did well-and one of the things I did when I got back was weigh my backpack: nearly 8 kilograms (around 20 pounds). No wonder my back hurt. Duh!
I more or less did nothing for a few days, although I did take my things out of the suitcase and do laundry. And sat. And contemplated how much I missed my friends, and how much I wanted to be in New York and not in London. I sat. And I got very depressed. I'm really here for the duration, unless some miracle happens. I think that if the imbeciles at the Royal London hadn't done such a fine job with the gentamicin, I would have been home years ago. But-that's out of the question now.
My life certainly didn't work out the way I wanted-or planned. And I'm certain that someone reading this will probably be able to identify with that statement. We think that things will happen a certain way, we expect a particular kind of life, and then we are thrown a curve ball. So what do we do? We deal with what is, and we do the best we can to make the best life we can for ourselves. If we don't succeed-or think we didn't succeed-it's down to us, nobody else.
My old friend Mo in New York was great after the gentamicin thing-and the breast cancer diagnosis. She sent me a little crown, which still hangs above my bed, to remind me that I am a warrior, and that I have faced tragedies constantly, with dignity, and that I have faced things -bravely- that nobody should have to face alone. Mo is somewhere in California now, and it's a shame that we've lost touch, because I look at the crown every once in awhile (okay, every day), and I remember her words of encouragement.
One day at a time, one foot in front of the other, and all that stuff people tell us. And Kettle Chips and Starbucks, of course.
I went back to Tai Chi yesterday, and I was so happy to be there. I missed it while I was away. I creaked. I hurt. But at the end of the hour and a quarter, I was doing all the exercises and doing all the movements, and it was as if I hadn't missed two weeks. Yippee. I'll survive. I'm damned if I will let the cripplers win...
The plane was delayed-by three hours-due to weather conditions coming up from Atlanta. Then there was turbulence. But, thank goodness, I didn't have anyone sitting next to me-and nobody farting (not that I could tell, anyway) all the way across the Atlantic. So that was a good thing.Ish.
Heathrow was chaotic, of course-so was JFK. All the big airports seem to be always packed. But at JFK there were men with big guns; at Heathrow there was no sign of security. They were there-I hope-I just didn't see them. And when I got out, got my case and decided to take the underground, then the problems surfaced. I discovered my limitations the hard-and painful-way. I was taking the escalator down to the underground level when my suitcase wheel caught on the bottom of the escalator-and both the case and I went flying backwards, and I landed on my back, on the escalator, hitting my head pretty hard. I was lucky, though-someone behind me helped me up and made sure I was okay. The young man was Australian, as it turned out-obviously he wasn't English, or he would have just stepped over me (or on me), and probably sworn at me and kicked me out of the way.
I managed the tortuous journey back to North London, taking the London Underground and getting off a few stops short of my station; this was due to the fact that this station had a lift (elevator) to the street, so I didn't have to struggle with a 50 pound suitcase up several sets of steps to the top. Someone still hasn't figured out that there are people who, for one reason or another, can't actually walk up a lot of steps. I didn't have that problem in New York, even without a suitcase.
So I got back, my friend and I celebrated at the pub, she went back up north, and I sat, dazed, knowing that if everything was as it always was when I went overseas, I was in for five days of horrendous jet lag.
Yep-true to form, I was in London, but my stomach was in New York. I was here physically-ish-but my biological clock was very, very confused. And Thursday I had to go for my infusions, so you can imagine what a joy that wasn't! But it all worked out, I did walk as much as I could, and I managed not to fall into oncoming traffic. I did well-and one of the things I did when I got back was weigh my backpack: nearly 8 kilograms (around 20 pounds). No wonder my back hurt. Duh!
I more or less did nothing for a few days, although I did take my things out of the suitcase and do laundry. And sat. And contemplated how much I missed my friends, and how much I wanted to be in New York and not in London. I sat. And I got very depressed. I'm really here for the duration, unless some miracle happens. I think that if the imbeciles at the Royal London hadn't done such a fine job with the gentamicin, I would have been home years ago. But-that's out of the question now.
My life certainly didn't work out the way I wanted-or planned. And I'm certain that someone reading this will probably be able to identify with that statement. We think that things will happen a certain way, we expect a particular kind of life, and then we are thrown a curve ball. So what do we do? We deal with what is, and we do the best we can to make the best life we can for ourselves. If we don't succeed-or think we didn't succeed-it's down to us, nobody else.
My old friend Mo in New York was great after the gentamicin thing-and the breast cancer diagnosis. She sent me a little crown, which still hangs above my bed, to remind me that I am a warrior, and that I have faced tragedies constantly, with dignity, and that I have faced things -bravely- that nobody should have to face alone. Mo is somewhere in California now, and it's a shame that we've lost touch, because I look at the crown every once in awhile (okay, every day), and I remember her words of encouragement.
One day at a time, one foot in front of the other, and all that stuff people tell us. And Kettle Chips and Starbucks, of course.
I went back to Tai Chi yesterday, and I was so happy to be there. I missed it while I was away. I creaked. I hurt. But at the end of the hour and a quarter, I was doing all the exercises and doing all the movements, and it was as if I hadn't missed two weeks. Yippee. I'll survive. I'm damned if I will let the cripplers win...
Tuesday, 24 October 2017
Knuckleheads on Parade
I've had an entertaining time watching the news as I hit the coffee machine first thing in the morning-and by first thing, I mean 6am. It wakes me up-and the stupidity of that orange oaf in the White House never ceases to astonish me. "Knucklehead" is about right. The idiot is incompetent. But, of course, you know where I stand on that one.
My friend-house-sitting for me at the moment- is having such a good time in London that she wants me to stay here for another week. Duh...I wish I could. But I would be so fat I would have to take up two seats on the plane. I've eaten enough to feed the population of a small, third-world country.
On second thought, make that a large, third-world country. I'll be eating fruit and salad for days when I get back. But, it was so worth it!
I've done just about everything I wanted to do while here: saw family (an obligation, only because I opened my mouth and told one person I was coming over. Big mistake-unless, of course, you like your relatives. I prefer my friends, quite honestly), saw my friends, went to the museum, mooched around Manhattan and a mall on Long Island...and, of course, I ate. A lot.
Now I'm just about ready to go back. Ah, jet lag: I get it both ways, and it was pretty awful this way, so I know what to expect on the red eye (overnight flight).
I've tried every remedy for jet lag: melatonin (keeps me awake), valerian (ditto), lavender (huh...smells nice, doesn't do anything for the dreaded lag), nothing works. But-I came, I saw, I ate, and I'll just have to deal with the lag when it happens. Whatever.
I'm going back to hear about the UK branch of Knuckleheads on Parade: more hilarity from politics.
Iceland is looking very, very attractive right now...
My friend-house-sitting for me at the moment- is having such a good time in London that she wants me to stay here for another week. Duh...I wish I could. But I would be so fat I would have to take up two seats on the plane. I've eaten enough to feed the population of a small, third-world country.
On second thought, make that a large, third-world country. I'll be eating fruit and salad for days when I get back. But, it was so worth it!
I've done just about everything I wanted to do while here: saw family (an obligation, only because I opened my mouth and told one person I was coming over. Big mistake-unless, of course, you like your relatives. I prefer my friends, quite honestly), saw my friends, went to the museum, mooched around Manhattan and a mall on Long Island...and, of course, I ate. A lot.
Now I'm just about ready to go back. Ah, jet lag: I get it both ways, and it was pretty awful this way, so I know what to expect on the red eye (overnight flight).
I've tried every remedy for jet lag: melatonin (keeps me awake), valerian (ditto), lavender (huh...smells nice, doesn't do anything for the dreaded lag), nothing works. But-I came, I saw, I ate, and I'll just have to deal with the lag when it happens. Whatever.
I'm going back to hear about the UK branch of Knuckleheads on Parade: more hilarity from politics.
Iceland is looking very, very attractive right now...
Monday, 23 October 2017
Bagel, bagel, who's got the bagel?
Even with a seriously nasty case of jet lag, I practically dreamed of a toasted bagel. Loaded with cream cheese. Mmmm....
My friend in the northeast comes down to London whenever I take a few days off to go somewhere. Usually that somewhere is the hospital; I'm hoping that, with the last operation, those days are behind me. There isn't anything else the surgeons can't remove that isn't a vital organ...
When my friend goes away, I go up north to stay there and dog sit. It's great for both of us: she gets to mooch around London, and I get the relative peace and quiet of the countryside. After a few days, we're both ready to go back and resume life as we know it.
I've now been here for nearly a week-and I have satisfied my bagel needs (and then some).I met my friends, who came to help me celebrate my birthday, and that was pretty terrific. But-and there is a very big "but"- I got really homesick. I'm over jet lag (finally-just in time to go back to Britain), I've stuffed my face, I've enjoyed a few days of retail therapy (my suitcase will be heavy enough to give some poor baggage handler a hernia. Or perhaps an aneurism. Or both).I got to my favorite museum (the Museum of Modern Art), and that was great. I'll have to save the Guggenheim for my next trip, because I'm just about out of time.
It has been a real eye-opener.There is construction everywhere; there are people everywhere; the epidemic that has swept the UK is here, too: people walking without looking because they're busy texting, so they will just crash into you without even a "sorry". In that way, it's just like being in England.
In Britain people will happily stab you, or beat several kinds of crap out of you, or even throw sulfuric acid in your face (acid is the new means of attack). Here they just shoot you. But at least here the sentences for major crimes seem to be severe; over in the UK someone will get a life sentence (very, VERY rare indeed) and be out in eight years. Just amazing. The inequities over in England when it comes to crime are just breathtaking.
Would I come home? In a New York minute. In a millisecond. That is a yes. But it would be very difficult for me - mostly because of the immune system problem (thanks Mom and Dad), and, of course, the whole balance thing (gentamicin: the gift that keeps on giving).
That is, of course, a challenge, and I am always up for a challenge. We'll see what happens. Meanwhile, I will just keep coming over and clocking up those air miles.
Now it's time for a coffee-and no bagel, because I'm really bagelled out. In fact, it's time to brave the crowds and take a long walk, and people-watch, while trying my best not to get knocked over...
My friend in the northeast comes down to London whenever I take a few days off to go somewhere. Usually that somewhere is the hospital; I'm hoping that, with the last operation, those days are behind me. There isn't anything else the surgeons can't remove that isn't a vital organ...
When my friend goes away, I go up north to stay there and dog sit. It's great for both of us: she gets to mooch around London, and I get the relative peace and quiet of the countryside. After a few days, we're both ready to go back and resume life as we know it.
I've now been here for nearly a week-and I have satisfied my bagel needs (and then some).I met my friends, who came to help me celebrate my birthday, and that was pretty terrific. But-and there is a very big "but"- I got really homesick. I'm over jet lag (finally-just in time to go back to Britain), I've stuffed my face, I've enjoyed a few days of retail therapy (my suitcase will be heavy enough to give some poor baggage handler a hernia. Or perhaps an aneurism. Or both).I got to my favorite museum (the Museum of Modern Art), and that was great. I'll have to save the Guggenheim for my next trip, because I'm just about out of time.
It has been a real eye-opener.There is construction everywhere; there are people everywhere; the epidemic that has swept the UK is here, too: people walking without looking because they're busy texting, so they will just crash into you without even a "sorry". In that way, it's just like being in England.
In Britain people will happily stab you, or beat several kinds of crap out of you, or even throw sulfuric acid in your face (acid is the new means of attack). Here they just shoot you. But at least here the sentences for major crimes seem to be severe; over in the UK someone will get a life sentence (very, VERY rare indeed) and be out in eight years. Just amazing. The inequities over in England when it comes to crime are just breathtaking.
Would I come home? In a New York minute. In a millisecond. That is a yes. But it would be very difficult for me - mostly because of the immune system problem (thanks Mom and Dad), and, of course, the whole balance thing (gentamicin: the gift that keeps on giving).
That is, of course, a challenge, and I am always up for a challenge. We'll see what happens. Meanwhile, I will just keep coming over and clocking up those air miles.
Now it's time for a coffee-and no bagel, because I'm really bagelled out. In fact, it's time to brave the crowds and take a long walk, and people-watch, while trying my best not to get knocked over...
Friday, 20 October 2017
Who am I? Where am I? Hint: not in London (hooray)
I'm suffering from severe jet lag, which I've had since Monday. It's nasty-makes you feel like life isn't worth living. And it goes on, and on, and on....
I'm in New York. I flew out on Monday morning-Delta Airlines, the ones with great service who never seem to crash (fingers crossed that I haven't just jinxed myself!!).
I'm not afraid of flying. I'm afraid of crashing.
The flight to New York was full-and I was lucky to find that the person sitting next to me was about my size, so I didn't have to squash myself into a corner (like everyone does who travels with the odious Ryanair). I was also lucky that the woman sat down, said nothing, and didn't talk for nearly eight hours. Who feels like socializing for eight hours on a plane, next to a perfect stranger, when all you want to do is catch up on the sleep you didn't get the night before?
However-and there is always a however-I sat behind two Eastern Europeans, two big guys, who didn't speak English-and that would have been fine, even them going to the loo every twenty minutes would have been fine (bad guts, maybe). What wasn't fine was that they farted all the way across the Atlantic. And they stank to high heaven; it smelled like some rats crawled up their backsides and died.
The downside of flying and being stuck on a plane for any length of time is that you breathe in everyone else's air. Recycled farts. How lovely.
Apart from the farters it was a good journey. We didn't crash, nobody died, and we got to JFK right on time-although there was some turbulence on the descent and it was a bit of a bone breaking landing...
There is a new system now-no more paper customs forms, but kiosks where you have to input your data, scan your passport, and look at a camera, which takes your photo and matches it with your passport photo.How cool is that!
I was going off to catch the little shuttle bus to the hotel, and couldn't help but notice a huge police presence-police with very serious weapons. Of course, me with my big mouth and curious nature-I went up to them and asked if they were expecting trouble. They looked at me and my elbow crutch, and probably decided that I wasn't a problem-and said that they are simply protecting the public and keeping a very visible presence. I wish they would do that at Heathrow-but they would probably end up shooting themselves in the foot.
I said that jet lag makes life not worth living-ah, well, I am still on UK time, although it isn't as bad as it was on Monday and Tuesday. And Wednesday. and yesterday. Ugh-I keep waking up at 2am, and feeling like it is really five hours later. I finally gave in on Wednesday and went only for a very long walk, then came back to the hotel and had to lie down for a few hours. Wednesday was my do-nothing day. I couldn't even face going onto the computer, because my eyes just don't want to focus, and there is a lot of swearing and gnashing of teeth, I can tell you.
Anyone who really, truly finds a cure for jet lag will make a fortune. Although there is a cure: don't go anywhere. If you don't fly long distances...well, but that just sucks the fun out of life,doesn't it?
My friend came to the hotel on Monday night (after work) and brought a load of Popeyes. She likes her Popeyes-which is like KFC but without the food poisoning.
It was Popeyes fried chicken, french fries, Coke-and it was around 7pm, so it was midnight to my stomach. But I'll tell you something: I never eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, or McDonalds, or any of that fast food stuff. But this chicken was battered, deep fried (so were the fries), and reallly good. With every bite I could feel my arteries harden and my hips expand. Yum. Delicious. Probably because I only had airline food all day...
I've been stuffing my face all week. Breakfast is included, and there are bagels (I think I've satisfied all my bagel needs in four days), eggs, bacon, veggie sausages-oh, you name it and it's probably on the menu. And I'm the person who has only a banana and a cup of tea or coffee when I'm in London-but these breakfasts set me up for the whole day.
My friend (DJ) and I went out every day except Wednesday, and we shopped. And ate. And shopped. And ate. And shopped some more. It was great, but now I'm knackered. But is that stopping me from going into Manhattan today? Of course not. I'll be taking some photos at the request of a friend back in the UK, and I'll be going to the Museum of Modern Art, one of my favorite places in New York. And eating. What the heck, you only live once.
And once might just be enough. Maybe. Perhaps. I'll keep you posted, now that my eyes are working...
I'm in New York. I flew out on Monday morning-Delta Airlines, the ones with great service who never seem to crash (fingers crossed that I haven't just jinxed myself!!).
I'm not afraid of flying. I'm afraid of crashing.
The flight to New York was full-and I was lucky to find that the person sitting next to me was about my size, so I didn't have to squash myself into a corner (like everyone does who travels with the odious Ryanair). I was also lucky that the woman sat down, said nothing, and didn't talk for nearly eight hours. Who feels like socializing for eight hours on a plane, next to a perfect stranger, when all you want to do is catch up on the sleep you didn't get the night before?
However-and there is always a however-I sat behind two Eastern Europeans, two big guys, who didn't speak English-and that would have been fine, even them going to the loo every twenty minutes would have been fine (bad guts, maybe). What wasn't fine was that they farted all the way across the Atlantic. And they stank to high heaven; it smelled like some rats crawled up their backsides and died.
The downside of flying and being stuck on a plane for any length of time is that you breathe in everyone else's air. Recycled farts. How lovely.
Apart from the farters it was a good journey. We didn't crash, nobody died, and we got to JFK right on time-although there was some turbulence on the descent and it was a bit of a bone breaking landing...
There is a new system now-no more paper customs forms, but kiosks where you have to input your data, scan your passport, and look at a camera, which takes your photo and matches it with your passport photo.How cool is that!
I was going off to catch the little shuttle bus to the hotel, and couldn't help but notice a huge police presence-police with very serious weapons. Of course, me with my big mouth and curious nature-I went up to them and asked if they were expecting trouble. They looked at me and my elbow crutch, and probably decided that I wasn't a problem-and said that they are simply protecting the public and keeping a very visible presence. I wish they would do that at Heathrow-but they would probably end up shooting themselves in the foot.
I said that jet lag makes life not worth living-ah, well, I am still on UK time, although it isn't as bad as it was on Monday and Tuesday. And Wednesday. and yesterday. Ugh-I keep waking up at 2am, and feeling like it is really five hours later. I finally gave in on Wednesday and went only for a very long walk, then came back to the hotel and had to lie down for a few hours. Wednesday was my do-nothing day. I couldn't even face going onto the computer, because my eyes just don't want to focus, and there is a lot of swearing and gnashing of teeth, I can tell you.
Anyone who really, truly finds a cure for jet lag will make a fortune. Although there is a cure: don't go anywhere. If you don't fly long distances...well, but that just sucks the fun out of life,doesn't it?
My friend came to the hotel on Monday night (after work) and brought a load of Popeyes. She likes her Popeyes-which is like KFC but without the food poisoning.
It was Popeyes fried chicken, french fries, Coke-and it was around 7pm, so it was midnight to my stomach. But I'll tell you something: I never eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, or McDonalds, or any of that fast food stuff. But this chicken was battered, deep fried (so were the fries), and reallly good. With every bite I could feel my arteries harden and my hips expand. Yum. Delicious. Probably because I only had airline food all day...
I've been stuffing my face all week. Breakfast is included, and there are bagels (I think I've satisfied all my bagel needs in four days), eggs, bacon, veggie sausages-oh, you name it and it's probably on the menu. And I'm the person who has only a banana and a cup of tea or coffee when I'm in London-but these breakfasts set me up for the whole day.
My friend (DJ) and I went out every day except Wednesday, and we shopped. And ate. And shopped. And ate. And shopped some more. It was great, but now I'm knackered. But is that stopping me from going into Manhattan today? Of course not. I'll be taking some photos at the request of a friend back in the UK, and I'll be going to the Museum of Modern Art, one of my favorite places in New York. And eating. What the heck, you only live once.
And once might just be enough. Maybe. Perhaps. I'll keep you posted, now that my eyes are working...
Wednesday, 4 October 2017
Hindsight is always 20/20
Funny how we all look back and think that if only we'd known what we know now, we wouldn't have done/said/not done...etc. Wouldn't our lives have been different. That's what I've been going through for more time than I want to think about: if I'd made different choices, done things differently, my life would be so different. That is what I mean by hindsight being 20/20: perfect vision when you look at your history. If you try to go back there-not so much.
I've been struggling since this last operation five weeks ago. It was a pig to get through, I'm still badly bruised and sore all the way across my chest, and I look mutilated. Even so, I'm not in as much pain as I was after the operation, so five weeks have made a big difference. Arnica and a heating pad have also made a big difference. I'm on the mend, but really seriously pissed off.
I think that we make the decisions and choices we make with the information we have at the time. When I decided to have reconstruction-mostly because I felt horribly mutilated after the mastectomy, and I didn't want to see myself as a "breast cancer survivor"-even though that is exactly what I am-I decided that reconstruction was the way to go. What an oops-I could have saved myself the torture and pain of three operations, and I'm still-well, flat...but at the time it seemed like a good decision. Ewww....now I advise people who ask me-and a lot of people ask me-to think very hard and to examine all the facts, do their due diligence, really, really consider if more surgery is what they want. Would I do it again, knowing what I know now? Aww, hell no-my mother didn't raise an idiot.
So here I am, on the mend, and I'm not looking to have any operation of any kind-ever. Hopefully I'll be well enough to keep to that decision.
I'm back doing Tai Chi, and I can finally raise my arms (both of them), so I'm able to do most things. I enjoy it, and it's a really good way to strengthen my muscles, all of which have headed south in a very big way in the last few months. Tai Chi is very deceptive: you might think it's very slow, and peaceful-but when you are holding a squat for what feels like forever, you discover that your muscles really have to work. Great stuff.
I also started vestibular physiotherapy this week. I'll have to work very hard-extra hard-to get back to where I was before all the surgery. My physio, Chris, is great. I told her I need to be accountable to someone or I'll be too lazy to do the work. So she gave me several sheets of exercises to do at least four times every day before I see her again in six weeks. Am I a glutton for punishment, or what?
Now-if your answer is yes, I'll feel really inadequate: can you stand with one foot in front of the other, toes of one foot (wearing shoes) touching the back of the other foot, for at least one minute (no cheating)? And then change feet and do the same thing? No falling over, no bracing yourself against a table, or a wall, or your dog, or your partner...well, I need to be able to do that by Christmas. Oh, really, seriously, I do. I also need to be able to balance on one leg while standing on a cushion. For one minute. Then change legs (if I haven't fallen over before then, that is).
This is going to be one hell of a challenge. But I've always been up for a challenge, so I'll just keep going, like the Energizer bunny, until I keel over. Oh, joy-well, I did ask for this. I'll let you know how I'm doing.
I'll be in New York just before Thanksgiving. This will be the first time home in five years. The last time I was on the tripod, I was so unwell that I could hardly walk-and jet-lagged as well. I think that it was too soon for me to make the trip. But this time, five years (technically nearly six years) have passed, and I've made huge improvements, even with all the setbacks from cancer, surgeries, etc, etc.
Another challenge, this time to my balance (such as it is) while experiencing the traveller's nightmare: jet lag.
I'm up for it. I'm not someone who can sit around and moan all the time. I might stand and moan, but I won't sit and moan.
Anything can happen to anyone at any time. I'm feeling the pressure of time...so off I go to do my Tai Chi walking and try not to topple over before I get to Starbucks.
I've been struggling since this last operation five weeks ago. It was a pig to get through, I'm still badly bruised and sore all the way across my chest, and I look mutilated. Even so, I'm not in as much pain as I was after the operation, so five weeks have made a big difference. Arnica and a heating pad have also made a big difference. I'm on the mend, but really seriously pissed off.
I think that we make the decisions and choices we make with the information we have at the time. When I decided to have reconstruction-mostly because I felt horribly mutilated after the mastectomy, and I didn't want to see myself as a "breast cancer survivor"-even though that is exactly what I am-I decided that reconstruction was the way to go. What an oops-I could have saved myself the torture and pain of three operations, and I'm still-well, flat...but at the time it seemed like a good decision. Ewww....now I advise people who ask me-and a lot of people ask me-to think very hard and to examine all the facts, do their due diligence, really, really consider if more surgery is what they want. Would I do it again, knowing what I know now? Aww, hell no-my mother didn't raise an idiot.
So here I am, on the mend, and I'm not looking to have any operation of any kind-ever. Hopefully I'll be well enough to keep to that decision.
I'm back doing Tai Chi, and I can finally raise my arms (both of them), so I'm able to do most things. I enjoy it, and it's a really good way to strengthen my muscles, all of which have headed south in a very big way in the last few months. Tai Chi is very deceptive: you might think it's very slow, and peaceful-but when you are holding a squat for what feels like forever, you discover that your muscles really have to work. Great stuff.
I also started vestibular physiotherapy this week. I'll have to work very hard-extra hard-to get back to where I was before all the surgery. My physio, Chris, is great. I told her I need to be accountable to someone or I'll be too lazy to do the work. So she gave me several sheets of exercises to do at least four times every day before I see her again in six weeks. Am I a glutton for punishment, or what?
Now-if your answer is yes, I'll feel really inadequate: can you stand with one foot in front of the other, toes of one foot (wearing shoes) touching the back of the other foot, for at least one minute (no cheating)? And then change feet and do the same thing? No falling over, no bracing yourself against a table, or a wall, or your dog, or your partner...well, I need to be able to do that by Christmas. Oh, really, seriously, I do. I also need to be able to balance on one leg while standing on a cushion. For one minute. Then change legs (if I haven't fallen over before then, that is).
This is going to be one hell of a challenge. But I've always been up for a challenge, so I'll just keep going, like the Energizer bunny, until I keel over. Oh, joy-well, I did ask for this. I'll let you know how I'm doing.
I'll be in New York just before Thanksgiving. This will be the first time home in five years. The last time I was on the tripod, I was so unwell that I could hardly walk-and jet-lagged as well. I think that it was too soon for me to make the trip. But this time, five years (technically nearly six years) have passed, and I've made huge improvements, even with all the setbacks from cancer, surgeries, etc, etc.
Another challenge, this time to my balance (such as it is) while experiencing the traveller's nightmare: jet lag.
I'm up for it. I'm not someone who can sit around and moan all the time. I might stand and moan, but I won't sit and moan.
Anything can happen to anyone at any time. I'm feeling the pressure of time...so off I go to do my Tai Chi walking and try not to topple over before I get to Starbucks.
Saturday, 23 September 2017
You've heard of Deadpool; now meet Bloodpool
Four weeks yesterday I had the implants removed-and what a disaster that was!! I ended up with a hematoma the size of Brazil. From waist to shoulder, all the way around the back, down to the buttocks-and it hurt like hell, too.
The docs tried to do a needle aspiration - they removed a syringe filled with blood (that was a week after surgery)-but then the blood clots became solid, and I was told that I should be out of pain in-maybe-six months.
If I've already told you this, feel free to go make a coffee for the next few sentences. It just means that that malady I call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) has once again reached up and bitten me on the ass. I can tell you that people I know quite well suffer from this as well-as do people in their 20s and 30s-so it's no longer just a middle aged person's malady. It's everywhere-like flu. Does that make me feel a little bit smug? It shouldn't-but it does.
Last week the surgeon removed the stitches from one side. He's waiting until Monday to remove the rest. I asked him if he thinks that any earlier would make my chest fall out if I coughed. He thought that was funny. If he was in my shoes, he wouldn't think anything is funny. He even told me that the pooled blood and all the blood clots would migrate down my buttocks and stomach, and I shouldn't be worried. Seriously? I asked him what I should do when it all reaches my ankles: stand on my head? Dangle upside down until it all starts to move the other way? Huh. Idiots.
Well, here I am, four weeks later, and a lot of the bruising has subsided, although the bruising on my chest still looks like someone kicked me while I was under the anesthesia. Kicked, punched, dropped a 20 kilo weight-whatever. I must have that effect on people: they want to wait until I'm comatose and then kick the shit out of me.
A doctor I know advised me to use heat-so I've been using a heating pad every day for about the last two weeks-and, between the heating pad and the arnica (I swear by arnica-too bad I don't have any stock in the company. Another missed opportunity), I think that it's all looking a bit less black. Now it's all dark grey. How exciting is that? I really need to get out more...
I do have some interesting news, and this is about the whole needles/syringes debacle. I persisted-almost daily, because you know that when someone really, really pisses me off I just go for the jugular, no matter how long it takes. I received an apology from my GP. It wasn't a grovelling apology, but it wasn't far off. Then on Thursday I was due to go over to the surgery for my annual flu shot-some media idiots are bleating that this will be the worst flu epidemic in years (they do that every year. It frightens people, and it sells what these idiots laughingly call "newspapers").
I go because of the whole immune system/chest challenges. And I'm sitting there, waiting for the doc to see me, and who walks out of her office- my GP. Of course. WTF...and other expressions of dismay...
She came straight over to me and apologized again, said that she was very foolish, and blah blah blah. Of course, every patient advocacy group-plus the MP-were after her, so she might have done this to get the heat off (finally). She also might have been genuinely sorry that she and her team of morons screwed up so royally. So we are going to meet in a couple of weeks and sit down and just put this all behind us. Perhaps I should wear a bullet-proof vest...or maybe she should?
I'm glad I persevered, and that this whole matter is nearly at an end, and if I never hear about needles and syringes again it will be absolutely wonderful.
My friend Dee says that anything for a quiet life-at any cost-is exactly what she wants, and she just doesn't like any kind of confrontation. She runs from it. I can understand that-in some ways-and I know her for a number of years, and if she was really happy to live her life that way, I would applaud her. I know that she isn't- because she never stands up for herself. But hey, whatever floats your boat.
I seem to be in battle mode a large percentage of time, fighting for myself, or for anyone who needs (and asks for) help...and I wonder which of us is healthier, the fighter or the - not fighter. I'm not so sure I want to keep fighting all the time. It's very wearing. In this country, if you fight for anyone's rights (including your own) you're pilloried and demonized. Who needs that?
I'm telling you: I'm going to take up kick boxing...
The docs tried to do a needle aspiration - they removed a syringe filled with blood (that was a week after surgery)-but then the blood clots became solid, and I was told that I should be out of pain in-maybe-six months.
If I've already told you this, feel free to go make a coffee for the next few sentences. It just means that that malady I call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) has once again reached up and bitten me on the ass. I can tell you that people I know quite well suffer from this as well-as do people in their 20s and 30s-so it's no longer just a middle aged person's malady. It's everywhere-like flu. Does that make me feel a little bit smug? It shouldn't-but it does.
Last week the surgeon removed the stitches from one side. He's waiting until Monday to remove the rest. I asked him if he thinks that any earlier would make my chest fall out if I coughed. He thought that was funny. If he was in my shoes, he wouldn't think anything is funny. He even told me that the pooled blood and all the blood clots would migrate down my buttocks and stomach, and I shouldn't be worried. Seriously? I asked him what I should do when it all reaches my ankles: stand on my head? Dangle upside down until it all starts to move the other way? Huh. Idiots.
Well, here I am, four weeks later, and a lot of the bruising has subsided, although the bruising on my chest still looks like someone kicked me while I was under the anesthesia. Kicked, punched, dropped a 20 kilo weight-whatever. I must have that effect on people: they want to wait until I'm comatose and then kick the shit out of me.
A doctor I know advised me to use heat-so I've been using a heating pad every day for about the last two weeks-and, between the heating pad and the arnica (I swear by arnica-too bad I don't have any stock in the company. Another missed opportunity), I think that it's all looking a bit less black. Now it's all dark grey. How exciting is that? I really need to get out more...
I do have some interesting news, and this is about the whole needles/syringes debacle. I persisted-almost daily, because you know that when someone really, really pisses me off I just go for the jugular, no matter how long it takes. I received an apology from my GP. It wasn't a grovelling apology, but it wasn't far off. Then on Thursday I was due to go over to the surgery for my annual flu shot-some media idiots are bleating that this will be the worst flu epidemic in years (they do that every year. It frightens people, and it sells what these idiots laughingly call "newspapers").
I go because of the whole immune system/chest challenges. And I'm sitting there, waiting for the doc to see me, and who walks out of her office- my GP. Of course. WTF...and other expressions of dismay...
She came straight over to me and apologized again, said that she was very foolish, and blah blah blah. Of course, every patient advocacy group-plus the MP-were after her, so she might have done this to get the heat off (finally). She also might have been genuinely sorry that she and her team of morons screwed up so royally. So we are going to meet in a couple of weeks and sit down and just put this all behind us. Perhaps I should wear a bullet-proof vest...or maybe she should?
I'm glad I persevered, and that this whole matter is nearly at an end, and if I never hear about needles and syringes again it will be absolutely wonderful.
My friend Dee says that anything for a quiet life-at any cost-is exactly what she wants, and she just doesn't like any kind of confrontation. She runs from it. I can understand that-in some ways-and I know her for a number of years, and if she was really happy to live her life that way, I would applaud her. I know that she isn't- because she never stands up for herself. But hey, whatever floats your boat.
I seem to be in battle mode a large percentage of time, fighting for myself, or for anyone who needs (and asks for) help...and I wonder which of us is healthier, the fighter or the - not fighter. I'm not so sure I want to keep fighting all the time. It's very wearing. In this country, if you fight for anyone's rights (including your own) you're pilloried and demonized. Who needs that?
I'm telling you: I'm going to take up kick boxing...
Saturday, 2 September 2017
Tits Ahoy: Titless in London
I was in full battle dress the last time I wrote-I fight for my principles. But I had to delay the battle (which I'll tell you about later) to go into the hospital last Friday (the 25th) to have the implants removed-after a six month wait.
Talk about pain; one implant was ruptured. So my body clearly doesn't like those things, and now I'm flat as a pancake again. But I would rather be flat and go through a week and a bit of agonizing pain (post-op) than all the pain I had before. It turns out-according to the surgeon-that a high percentage of women have the implants removed because the body rejects them. Thanks for telling me now-a bit late, don't you think? And, there is a shelf life for implants. Even when they're successful, they need replacing every 7-10 years. Some lucky women are okay with them for longer than that, but there are so many side effects that now I encourage people to think very carefully about whether or not it is worth the aggravation.
I was discharged on Wednesday afternoon, and have I ever been suffering since then! The after effects of pain killers, intravenous antibiotics, and hospital food that I'm sure started out as toxic waste-all these things took their toll. So, since I got back I have been pretty inert-and what balance I have paid the price. If I don't walk daily, I start to revert to staggering. Interesting.
Yesterday I forced myself to eat, and I managed to keep a bit down, but that was a little difficult. I also walked for about 45 minutes; I'm someone who never does things by halves, so of course I overdid it, and got back and was knackered. But something about movement, action and refusing to quit has made things begin to improve. That, plus it's been a week since surgery, mean that I'm in less pain. But I'm also black from waist to shoulder, so that's really unpleasant. For the first five or six days I couldn't raise my arms. That was a little disconcerting, I can tell you. There's so much really bad bruising that I said to the surgeon that I must have offended someone and they waited until I was unconscious to kick me in the chest. I made him laugh, but I did wonder...
But now that I'm slowly on the mend from that ordeal, I have to tell you about this battle-it is so incredible that I tell friends and family and they look at me, astonished, as if to say: can that be real? It can. It is.
I might have mentioned that my GP had been giving me needles and syringes every month and a half or so, needed for my nebulizer. Now, I've had this nebulizer for more than seven years, and they began trialling it then as an alternative to the big clunking one that you have to clear the room of people, pets, goldfish, before you can actually use it, because a lot of the antibiotic goes straight into the room. So you have to also open the window and shut the door. With this new one, you don't need to do that. It is the size of a pack of cards, very compact, and a special formulation of the antibiotic is used,which must be drawn up (hence the needles and syringes), then injected into the vial of antibiotic, mixed well, and placed into the nebulizer. The entire process takes less than five minutes-plus the two or three minutes it takes to rinse the bits of the machine. And then Bob's your uncle. Done and dusted (no, I still don't know who Bob is and why he's your uncle. But nobody else does, either). The Ineb is the Rolls Royce of nebulizers-more than 90 percent of antibiotic is inhaled-less than half is inhaled using the traditional nebulizer. So why on earth would I go back to using the old one?
In July, Margaret (my GP) decided that the needles and syringes are "coming out of the partners' pockets"-and she was going to stop giving them to me, which she had been doing for many years out of the "kindness of her heart". That was her reasoning: it's coming out of the partners' pockets. When the NHS gave all the funding directly to the GPs and told them to manage the funds themselves (funds that are public funds), it was inevitable that some unscrupulous doctors would get greedy; lining their own pockets and stuffing their own bank balances were more important than their patients' health and wellbeing. Again, a matter of principle for me.
There are four partners and eleven paid doctors-and the practice is paid a certain amount per patient (I don't know how much it is now, but six years ago it was £150 per patient. You do the math). The practice is coining it in-but they can't afford £10 or £12 every month and a half? Who are they kidding?
To add insult to injury, Margaret didn't have the guts to come out and tell me herself. She had a very nasty receptionist come out and slam two part boxes on the counter and tell me that these are the last needles and syringes that I'm going to get. I asked why; she snapped that Margaret said that these objects-necessary equipment to nebulize, which is necessary for my survival-are coming out of the partners' pockets. When I asked what I was supposed to do, she snapped again: go and buy them yourself. Then she walked away. I asked before she left to speak to Margaret, and she told me that Margaret was "busy".
So that was the beginning of a fight. I checked with the pharmacy, and was told that both boxes would cost me £25 per month-and the person who prescribes the antibiotic is obliged to provide the equipment to use that antibiotic. So into action I went-in a big way.
I got onto the Great God Google, and I found a patients' helpline. I rang them and got the name of a patients' advocacy group called Healthwatch. I contacted the Haringey CCG-clinical commissioning group-who allegedly oversee the medical practices in the borough. I rang a lawyer and asked if it was legal for her to do this. I was told that if these objects are not in the formulary, they can't be prescribed, but what she did - and the way she did it- was unethical, unprofessional, and immoral. The lawyer said that the whole thing was disgusting.
I didn't stop there. I called NHS England, and was told that, since I complained to the practice (even though it was by phone and not in writing), they couldn't help me, because new legislation dictated that if a patient complains to a doctor that patient can't make a complaint to the NHS. What a load of bollocks.
I then went to the Ombudsman (you can tell I was very busy. That's what happens when you piss me off). And they were sympathetic, thought her behavior and attitude were a total disgrace-but said that if I could get her to put in writing (an email would do nicely) that the reason she decided to stop the provision of the equipment I need to use the antibiotics that she prescribed was that it was "coming out of the partners' pockets", they could take action on my behalf. So I'm trying to get her to do that; she promised that she would, and I will keep on at her until she keeps her promise.
This is a matter of disgraceful, disgusting, unprofessional and downright petty behavior on the part of a GP who should know better. She even went to my team at the hospital, would you believe? And they told me last week that they would provide the needles and syringes, even though it isn't their obligation to do so. They said that I'm their patient, and my safety, health and well-being are their priority. They would rather give me the equipment I need than to see me go without. And their comment about Margaret is that she is a disgrace. There goes her reputation-as if she cares. She'd rather sit in her office and count her money.
Am I stopping there? Hell, no. I'm getting that letter if I have to go there and sit and wait for it. Then I'm going to the Ombudsman, and we'll see a few sparks fly, because I'm also going to my local MP. Margaret will love a letter with a Parliament letterhead. Then I'm going to the media. And then, when I've made a huge deal and stirred the shit as much as I can, I'm changing doctors.
It isn't about a relatively small sum of money. It's about the lack of ethics and integrity, it's about the cowardly and unpleasant way it was done. It's a matter of principle, and as I said, I fight for a principle-even if I fight for other people, it's the principle.
And that's what happens when you really, really piss me off.
Talk about pain; one implant was ruptured. So my body clearly doesn't like those things, and now I'm flat as a pancake again. But I would rather be flat and go through a week and a bit of agonizing pain (post-op) than all the pain I had before. It turns out-according to the surgeon-that a high percentage of women have the implants removed because the body rejects them. Thanks for telling me now-a bit late, don't you think? And, there is a shelf life for implants. Even when they're successful, they need replacing every 7-10 years. Some lucky women are okay with them for longer than that, but there are so many side effects that now I encourage people to think very carefully about whether or not it is worth the aggravation.
I was discharged on Wednesday afternoon, and have I ever been suffering since then! The after effects of pain killers, intravenous antibiotics, and hospital food that I'm sure started out as toxic waste-all these things took their toll. So, since I got back I have been pretty inert-and what balance I have paid the price. If I don't walk daily, I start to revert to staggering. Interesting.
Yesterday I forced myself to eat, and I managed to keep a bit down, but that was a little difficult. I also walked for about 45 minutes; I'm someone who never does things by halves, so of course I overdid it, and got back and was knackered. But something about movement, action and refusing to quit has made things begin to improve. That, plus it's been a week since surgery, mean that I'm in less pain. But I'm also black from waist to shoulder, so that's really unpleasant. For the first five or six days I couldn't raise my arms. That was a little disconcerting, I can tell you. There's so much really bad bruising that I said to the surgeon that I must have offended someone and they waited until I was unconscious to kick me in the chest. I made him laugh, but I did wonder...
But now that I'm slowly on the mend from that ordeal, I have to tell you about this battle-it is so incredible that I tell friends and family and they look at me, astonished, as if to say: can that be real? It can. It is.
I might have mentioned that my GP had been giving me needles and syringes every month and a half or so, needed for my nebulizer. Now, I've had this nebulizer for more than seven years, and they began trialling it then as an alternative to the big clunking one that you have to clear the room of people, pets, goldfish, before you can actually use it, because a lot of the antibiotic goes straight into the room. So you have to also open the window and shut the door. With this new one, you don't need to do that. It is the size of a pack of cards, very compact, and a special formulation of the antibiotic is used,which must be drawn up (hence the needles and syringes), then injected into the vial of antibiotic, mixed well, and placed into the nebulizer. The entire process takes less than five minutes-plus the two or three minutes it takes to rinse the bits of the machine. And then Bob's your uncle. Done and dusted (no, I still don't know who Bob is and why he's your uncle. But nobody else does, either). The Ineb is the Rolls Royce of nebulizers-more than 90 percent of antibiotic is inhaled-less than half is inhaled using the traditional nebulizer. So why on earth would I go back to using the old one?
In July, Margaret (my GP) decided that the needles and syringes are "coming out of the partners' pockets"-and she was going to stop giving them to me, which she had been doing for many years out of the "kindness of her heart". That was her reasoning: it's coming out of the partners' pockets. When the NHS gave all the funding directly to the GPs and told them to manage the funds themselves (funds that are public funds), it was inevitable that some unscrupulous doctors would get greedy; lining their own pockets and stuffing their own bank balances were more important than their patients' health and wellbeing. Again, a matter of principle for me.
There are four partners and eleven paid doctors-and the practice is paid a certain amount per patient (I don't know how much it is now, but six years ago it was £150 per patient. You do the math). The practice is coining it in-but they can't afford £10 or £12 every month and a half? Who are they kidding?
To add insult to injury, Margaret didn't have the guts to come out and tell me herself. She had a very nasty receptionist come out and slam two part boxes on the counter and tell me that these are the last needles and syringes that I'm going to get. I asked why; she snapped that Margaret said that these objects-necessary equipment to nebulize, which is necessary for my survival-are coming out of the partners' pockets. When I asked what I was supposed to do, she snapped again: go and buy them yourself. Then she walked away. I asked before she left to speak to Margaret, and she told me that Margaret was "busy".
So that was the beginning of a fight. I checked with the pharmacy, and was told that both boxes would cost me £25 per month-and the person who prescribes the antibiotic is obliged to provide the equipment to use that antibiotic. So into action I went-in a big way.
I got onto the Great God Google, and I found a patients' helpline. I rang them and got the name of a patients' advocacy group called Healthwatch. I contacted the Haringey CCG-clinical commissioning group-who allegedly oversee the medical practices in the borough. I rang a lawyer and asked if it was legal for her to do this. I was told that if these objects are not in the formulary, they can't be prescribed, but what she did - and the way she did it- was unethical, unprofessional, and immoral. The lawyer said that the whole thing was disgusting.
I didn't stop there. I called NHS England, and was told that, since I complained to the practice (even though it was by phone and not in writing), they couldn't help me, because new legislation dictated that if a patient complains to a doctor that patient can't make a complaint to the NHS. What a load of bollocks.
I then went to the Ombudsman (you can tell I was very busy. That's what happens when you piss me off). And they were sympathetic, thought her behavior and attitude were a total disgrace-but said that if I could get her to put in writing (an email would do nicely) that the reason she decided to stop the provision of the equipment I need to use the antibiotics that she prescribed was that it was "coming out of the partners' pockets", they could take action on my behalf. So I'm trying to get her to do that; she promised that she would, and I will keep on at her until she keeps her promise.
This is a matter of disgraceful, disgusting, unprofessional and downright petty behavior on the part of a GP who should know better. She even went to my team at the hospital, would you believe? And they told me last week that they would provide the needles and syringes, even though it isn't their obligation to do so. They said that I'm their patient, and my safety, health and well-being are their priority. They would rather give me the equipment I need than to see me go without. And their comment about Margaret is that she is a disgrace. There goes her reputation-as if she cares. She'd rather sit in her office and count her money.
Am I stopping there? Hell, no. I'm getting that letter if I have to go there and sit and wait for it. Then I'm going to the Ombudsman, and we'll see a few sparks fly, because I'm also going to my local MP. Margaret will love a letter with a Parliament letterhead. Then I'm going to the media. And then, when I've made a huge deal and stirred the shit as much as I can, I'm changing doctors.
It isn't about a relatively small sum of money. It's about the lack of ethics and integrity, it's about the cowardly and unpleasant way it was done. It's a matter of principle, and as I said, I fight for a principle-even if I fight for other people, it's the principle.
And that's what happens when you really, really piss me off.
Thursday, 24 August 2017
Rootin' Tootin' Freakin' Luton
I went to Ireland for a few days. After the last time I blogged, I found myself taking Ryanair from Luton to Dublin. Here is a bit of advice: never, EVER, fly Ryanair. They are the world's worse, shittiest airline.
Ryanair prides itself on being very cheap. It is: very, very cheap, so cheap that you begin to wonder if you are going to have to walk to Ireland. And Luton Airport, now known as "London Luton Airport", is about 35 miles out of London-or thereabouts. Most of the cheapo flights depart from Luton, which is now being renovated. So you end up walking around a half hour to the gate, then walk to outside steps to the plane (remember those? Yeah, I didn't think so), up about a dozen steps, and if you're carrying a crutch in one hand and a case in the other, it's just about impossible to get up the steps without ending up falling ass over tit onto the person behind you. Did anyone help? Seriously? At one point I had to turn around and snap at someone, saying that if they're in such a bloody rush they could help me. They didn't. Welcome to Britain.
Ryanair won't give you a glass of water, either. They say they don't have any-but will charge you for a bottle of water. They'll also charge you for a reserved seat (good thing, because the plane is very old, and has a central aisle with three seats on each side, and the seats don't recline. Obviously. That would be the mark of a quality airline). They charge for everything; soon they'll be charging to use the restroom. And maybe to breathe the air. It was horrible-and I've even left stuff out!
Now Luton-they're renovating, and moving runways around, and trying to tart up the airport. But no matter how hard they try to tart the place up, it is-and will always be-a shithole. Because the flights leave at some ungodly hour-like 6am-and you have to be there for 4am- you'd think it wouldn't be all that crowded at that hour of the day. But it was like being in the middle of a stampede. Hundreds of people of varying ages and sizes swarmed on the place like a plague of locusts-and I was doing my best to stay upright. What a challenge.
The plane arrived late, the crew were left standing around waiting for the plane to arrive, and when it did, someone walked around it, checking for-what, exactly? To make sure the engines weren't going to drop out? I think that Ryanair buys old planes, reconditions them, and keeps them together with super glue and sticky tape. I had visions of us dropping out of the sky at any moment.
The flights both to and from Dublin made me want to never fly Ryanair again-and never fly out of poxy Luton, the shithole of England. I'd rather walk. There was a point where I thought we all might have to walk.
But I enjoyed Ireland-once I got there. My friend has a lovely house outside Kilkenny, and we spent a few days just hanging out, walking around Kilkenny, and generally doing very little. I needed the rest, frankly; I finally have a surgery date, after six months of waiting for these leaking implants to be removed.
The surgery is tomorrow. Ewww....I'm really apprehensive, given the history of things gone wrong. Thanks to the NHS for nearly killing me; will they succeed this time? I must remember that the oncologist knows what he's doing, and he isn't like the three cripplers (Hilary Longhurst, Sofia Grigoriadou, Phil not-so-Bright), so I think this is just a knee jerk fear reaction. We'll see.
At least I won't be in a place where I can fight with anyone. I'll probably be too busy throwing up and asking for morphine.
I'll let you know when I get back on Monday. My friend is staying with me, since I probably won't be able to lift my arms for a few days. What a way to ruin a bank holiday weekend!
Ryanair prides itself on being very cheap. It is: very, very cheap, so cheap that you begin to wonder if you are going to have to walk to Ireland. And Luton Airport, now known as "London Luton Airport", is about 35 miles out of London-or thereabouts. Most of the cheapo flights depart from Luton, which is now being renovated. So you end up walking around a half hour to the gate, then walk to outside steps to the plane (remember those? Yeah, I didn't think so), up about a dozen steps, and if you're carrying a crutch in one hand and a case in the other, it's just about impossible to get up the steps without ending up falling ass over tit onto the person behind you. Did anyone help? Seriously? At one point I had to turn around and snap at someone, saying that if they're in such a bloody rush they could help me. They didn't. Welcome to Britain.
Ryanair won't give you a glass of water, either. They say they don't have any-but will charge you for a bottle of water. They'll also charge you for a reserved seat (good thing, because the plane is very old, and has a central aisle with three seats on each side, and the seats don't recline. Obviously. That would be the mark of a quality airline). They charge for everything; soon they'll be charging to use the restroom. And maybe to breathe the air. It was horrible-and I've even left stuff out!
Now Luton-they're renovating, and moving runways around, and trying to tart up the airport. But no matter how hard they try to tart the place up, it is-and will always be-a shithole. Because the flights leave at some ungodly hour-like 6am-and you have to be there for 4am- you'd think it wouldn't be all that crowded at that hour of the day. But it was like being in the middle of a stampede. Hundreds of people of varying ages and sizes swarmed on the place like a plague of locusts-and I was doing my best to stay upright. What a challenge.
The plane arrived late, the crew were left standing around waiting for the plane to arrive, and when it did, someone walked around it, checking for-what, exactly? To make sure the engines weren't going to drop out? I think that Ryanair buys old planes, reconditions them, and keeps them together with super glue and sticky tape. I had visions of us dropping out of the sky at any moment.
The flights both to and from Dublin made me want to never fly Ryanair again-and never fly out of poxy Luton, the shithole of England. I'd rather walk. There was a point where I thought we all might have to walk.
But I enjoyed Ireland-once I got there. My friend has a lovely house outside Kilkenny, and we spent a few days just hanging out, walking around Kilkenny, and generally doing very little. I needed the rest, frankly; I finally have a surgery date, after six months of waiting for these leaking implants to be removed.
The surgery is tomorrow. Ewww....I'm really apprehensive, given the history of things gone wrong. Thanks to the NHS for nearly killing me; will they succeed this time? I must remember that the oncologist knows what he's doing, and he isn't like the three cripplers (Hilary Longhurst, Sofia Grigoriadou, Phil not-so-Bright), so I think this is just a knee jerk fear reaction. We'll see.
At least I won't be in a place where I can fight with anyone. I'll probably be too busy throwing up and asking for morphine.
I'll let you know when I get back on Monday. My friend is staying with me, since I probably won't be able to lift my arms for a few days. What a way to ruin a bank holiday weekend!
Wednesday, 9 August 2017
Spontaneous Combustion and the Organ Grinder's Monkey
Did you ever have a day where you got so irritated at people-just about all people-that you wanted to turn around and punch them in the face? Yes, I've had six weeks like that. And it was so long since I posted that I found it difficult to get back in the saddle.
I'm back in the saddle. And can I ever understand why some people just lose it and turn around and beat the crap out of the people who seriously piss them off. Been there, done that. Sadly, however, I'm not a hitter. I would probably lift my arm to hit someone and fall over. Oh, well...it's the thought that counts.
I had a tough time with the heat, the humidity, the rank air... extremes of heat give me migraines. I don't get them from the usual culprits: red wine, chocolate, sex...(just joking about the last one. It's been so long since I had any, I forgot who gets tied up).
I managed to do all the hospital stuff; if it was necessary, I did it. It worked out, though, because my physiotherapist was so pleased with my progress (or maybe she just got fed up with my sweating all over her floor), that she discharged me. I start more physio with the vestibular people, and that will be hard going-but the thought of being challenged really makes me happy.
That doesn't quite bring you up to speed, although there were times when it was so hot that if I'd spontaneously combusted I probably would have been cooler. I would have been less embarrassed, too-because I left a sweat trail. If you wanted to find me, all you needed to do was follow the trail. Ewww...not very sexy, sweating everywhere, I can tell you.
Three weeks ago the fertilizer hit the fan with my neighbor upstairs-Abdul Asswipe, the psychopath who drills in the middle of the night. He has the nasty habit of leaving puddles of interesting biological matter outside my door-in short, he pees. He clearly comes from a country that doesn't have toilets. Or he's just a pig. So I lost it. I rang the landlord to complain, and I was shunted from department to department and put on hold. After nearly two hours of this - and I was born without the patience gene, so you can imagine how I was ready to go bitch slap someone - I hung up-and I realized that I have been telling you for years how you should ignore the monkey and find the organ grinder if you want something done. Blech-the world is full of monkeys who fancy themselves as organ grinders. So when you see a monkey, pat him on the head, kick him in the balls, and go find the organ grinder.You'll do a lot of ball kicking-but if you just don't give up, you will find them.
I rang the council, since they áre my landlords (for the time being), and I asked for the name and extensión of the CEO. The chief executive officer has to be the organ grinder- and the switchboard operator was great. She took pity on me, hearing the frustration in my voice- put me on hold, and came back and said that she spoke to this guy Chris's assistant, who wanted me to put everything in an email. That is exactly what I did. Of course, Chris didn't get back to me. After all, he is the CEO; he could be the CEO of a public toilet, but the title is enough to give him delusions of grandeur.
This was on Friday; on Wednesday I received a phone call from the antisocial behaviour team. They wanted to know what happened, since I also put in the email how useless they were in 2012, when they had me jumping through hoops.
An hour later-an hour later-the housing director phoned me. Then he rang me back half an hour later, to tell me that he was coming on Friday to talk to Abdul and sort him out.
And that is exactly what happened. As you can imagine, the CEO probably delegated the problem to some minion somewhere, and told the minion to sort it, because he never wanted to hear from me again.
Like I care? Do I care? Hell, no. Find the organ grinder. Piss him off. You aren't in this life to make everyone like you; you want results.
There's more drama from the past few weeks, but I'll save it for next time-or this post will be the length of War and Peace.
Next time-and not six weeks from now, either. Life is getting more and more interesting. And I think I need to take up a hobby that is more in line with my personality. Maybe-kickboxing...
I'm back in the saddle. And can I ever understand why some people just lose it and turn around and beat the crap out of the people who seriously piss them off. Been there, done that. Sadly, however, I'm not a hitter. I would probably lift my arm to hit someone and fall over. Oh, well...it's the thought that counts.
I had a tough time with the heat, the humidity, the rank air... extremes of heat give me migraines. I don't get them from the usual culprits: red wine, chocolate, sex...(just joking about the last one. It's been so long since I had any, I forgot who gets tied up).
I managed to do all the hospital stuff; if it was necessary, I did it. It worked out, though, because my physiotherapist was so pleased with my progress (or maybe she just got fed up with my sweating all over her floor), that she discharged me. I start more physio with the vestibular people, and that will be hard going-but the thought of being challenged really makes me happy.
That doesn't quite bring you up to speed, although there were times when it was so hot that if I'd spontaneously combusted I probably would have been cooler. I would have been less embarrassed, too-because I left a sweat trail. If you wanted to find me, all you needed to do was follow the trail. Ewww...not very sexy, sweating everywhere, I can tell you.
Three weeks ago the fertilizer hit the fan with my neighbor upstairs-Abdul Asswipe, the psychopath who drills in the middle of the night. He has the nasty habit of leaving puddles of interesting biological matter outside my door-in short, he pees. He clearly comes from a country that doesn't have toilets. Or he's just a pig. So I lost it. I rang the landlord to complain, and I was shunted from department to department and put on hold. After nearly two hours of this - and I was born without the patience gene, so you can imagine how I was ready to go bitch slap someone - I hung up-and I realized that I have been telling you for years how you should ignore the monkey and find the organ grinder if you want something done. Blech-the world is full of monkeys who fancy themselves as organ grinders. So when you see a monkey, pat him on the head, kick him in the balls, and go find the organ grinder.You'll do a lot of ball kicking-but if you just don't give up, you will find them.
I rang the council, since they áre my landlords (for the time being), and I asked for the name and extensión of the CEO. The chief executive officer has to be the organ grinder- and the switchboard operator was great. She took pity on me, hearing the frustration in my voice- put me on hold, and came back and said that she spoke to this guy Chris's assistant, who wanted me to put everything in an email. That is exactly what I did. Of course, Chris didn't get back to me. After all, he is the CEO; he could be the CEO of a public toilet, but the title is enough to give him delusions of grandeur.
This was on Friday; on Wednesday I received a phone call from the antisocial behaviour team. They wanted to know what happened, since I also put in the email how useless they were in 2012, when they had me jumping through hoops.
An hour later-an hour later-the housing director phoned me. Then he rang me back half an hour later, to tell me that he was coming on Friday to talk to Abdul and sort him out.
And that is exactly what happened. As you can imagine, the CEO probably delegated the problem to some minion somewhere, and told the minion to sort it, because he never wanted to hear from me again.
Like I care? Do I care? Hell, no. Find the organ grinder. Piss him off. You aren't in this life to make everyone like you; you want results.
There's more drama from the past few weeks, but I'll save it for next time-or this post will be the length of War and Peace.
Next time-and not six weeks from now, either. Life is getting more and more interesting. And I think I need to take up a hobby that is more in line with my personality. Maybe-kickboxing...
Friday, 30 June 2017
Just like a bad case of food poisoning
I'm finally back online-and we're now into the 70s, as opposed to 100F and rising. For now. So I'm not sloshing everywhere. Yet.
Yesterday I stopped writing early so I could go to Starbucks-I really, really wanted a flat white, my weapon of choice (because carrying a gun is illegal-not that lots of people care, and carry them anyway).
I decided to go to see Baby Driver, which I thought would be a good film. It was, and the bonus for me was to hear the Simon and Garfunkel track at the end of the movie. Air conditioning? Seriously?
I advised you not to talk to anyone over here, and to be really cautious, because most (not all, but a lot) are braindead, rude, obnoxious, and threatening. Knife crimes are high, and people are now throwing acid in people's faces and blinding them. Sick? Well, yes-a good reason to keep eyes averted (while you still have them) and mouth firmly shut. But me? You know better by now-and I live here, so I should know better. Ummm...
I walked out of the cinema, humming Baby Driver, and as I began to turn the corner, some imbecile decided to push past me on the crutch side-right next to the corner of the building. Now, wouldn't you see that someone is on a crutch, a bit wobbly, lifting the stick to turn left-and wouldn't you take a few seconds to let them turn before coming around them? Of course you would. That takes a functioning brain. And manners. Oh, no-this woman pushed me and tried to get around me, crashing into the crutch, tripping, and falling over. What a moron! I just looked at her-and she went off like a rocket. You tripped me! No, I said, you tripped over the crutch and nearly knocked me over. No, she said, I tripped you? Who fell over? I could see that she was mental-so I watched what I said, because the moron just wanted to fight. She then went on to say that I should remember what area I'm in (no shit. Wood Green, one of the really crap, crime ridden and dangerous areas of London), and that if she wasn't so nice she would hit me. I just looked at her-and said oh really - and walked away. I was waiting for a punch-or knife- in the back, but she was either just full of hot air or on drugs, or just a nutter. Lucky escape. I could have told her off-but I just kept my mouth shut. Mostly.
My ex used to say that if there was one crazy person within a fifty mile radius, that person would find me. He was from the northeast, my favourite part of the country-where they actually like (mostly) Americans, so I always thought I was pretty safe there. But-no, I seem to attract nutters wherever I go. They just turn up; they just keep coming back, they're really like a bad case of food poisoning: they don't want to go elsewhere.
I know: moan, moan, whinge, whinge, kvetch, kvetch. I have done so much of that over these seven years that I have bored myself rigid. So now I need to stop. Well-at least slow down-because dumping on the Brits is justified. And fun. And I had years of being on the receiving end, so now it's time to get my own back. There is truth to the saying: don't get mad, get even. Unless you're over here: then get very, very quiet.
My new neurologist, Dr N (I've used Dr A and Dr B so many times, I forgot which one was which), told me that I've had a huge setback, and that, considering all the surgeries, cancer, CVID, etc., I'm doing remarkably well. He said that I just need to keep walking, keep fighting (not other people, though) to improve, keep positive (not so easy!! I'm really beginning to prefer animals to people. I'm even beginning to prefer coffee to people), remember that it will take longer than it will for people who haven't had serious illnesses...he went on to say that he has many patients who have had vestibular destruction in only one ear, but they don't do one percent of what I've managed to do. They sit. I guess they sit and rot. I don't sit. I fall over, but I don't sit. And rotting? That's for vegetables. I'm not there yet.
I'm really lucky that I got a supportive vestibular specialist-in fact, I'm really lucky that, after so many years at that crap hospital (Royal London), I've got a really good team at the Royal Free. And-by the way-I discovered on Monday that I'm not imagining things when it comes to the implant.
I've sprung a leak. Yes, one implant is leaking, and that is why I'm in so much pain. I haven't done anything: haven't fallen on it, or knocked it, I've been really careful-but it's leaking. So both implants are being removed. I'm going to have this done at the end of August.
I will -once again - be completely flat. I will have a six pack chest. I will have a nice, flat space to put my laptop. And I was initially a little upset-but I also won't have pain. And I'm cancer free. So I'm not so upset after all-although I did buy some really nice bras, and now I will have to stuff them full of -tissues? Kleenex. If I need a tissue, I'll know where to find it.
Yesterday I stopped writing early so I could go to Starbucks-I really, really wanted a flat white, my weapon of choice (because carrying a gun is illegal-not that lots of people care, and carry them anyway).
I decided to go to see Baby Driver, which I thought would be a good film. It was, and the bonus for me was to hear the Simon and Garfunkel track at the end of the movie. Air conditioning? Seriously?
I advised you not to talk to anyone over here, and to be really cautious, because most (not all, but a lot) are braindead, rude, obnoxious, and threatening. Knife crimes are high, and people are now throwing acid in people's faces and blinding them. Sick? Well, yes-a good reason to keep eyes averted (while you still have them) and mouth firmly shut. But me? You know better by now-and I live here, so I should know better. Ummm...
I walked out of the cinema, humming Baby Driver, and as I began to turn the corner, some imbecile decided to push past me on the crutch side-right next to the corner of the building. Now, wouldn't you see that someone is on a crutch, a bit wobbly, lifting the stick to turn left-and wouldn't you take a few seconds to let them turn before coming around them? Of course you would. That takes a functioning brain. And manners. Oh, no-this woman pushed me and tried to get around me, crashing into the crutch, tripping, and falling over. What a moron! I just looked at her-and she went off like a rocket. You tripped me! No, I said, you tripped over the crutch and nearly knocked me over. No, she said, I tripped you? Who fell over? I could see that she was mental-so I watched what I said, because the moron just wanted to fight. She then went on to say that I should remember what area I'm in (no shit. Wood Green, one of the really crap, crime ridden and dangerous areas of London), and that if she wasn't so nice she would hit me. I just looked at her-and said oh really - and walked away. I was waiting for a punch-or knife- in the back, but she was either just full of hot air or on drugs, or just a nutter. Lucky escape. I could have told her off-but I just kept my mouth shut. Mostly.
My ex used to say that if there was one crazy person within a fifty mile radius, that person would find me. He was from the northeast, my favourite part of the country-where they actually like (mostly) Americans, so I always thought I was pretty safe there. But-no, I seem to attract nutters wherever I go. They just turn up; they just keep coming back, they're really like a bad case of food poisoning: they don't want to go elsewhere.
I know: moan, moan, whinge, whinge, kvetch, kvetch. I have done so much of that over these seven years that I have bored myself rigid. So now I need to stop. Well-at least slow down-because dumping on the Brits is justified. And fun. And I had years of being on the receiving end, so now it's time to get my own back. There is truth to the saying: don't get mad, get even. Unless you're over here: then get very, very quiet.
My new neurologist, Dr N (I've used Dr A and Dr B so many times, I forgot which one was which), told me that I've had a huge setback, and that, considering all the surgeries, cancer, CVID, etc., I'm doing remarkably well. He said that I just need to keep walking, keep fighting (not other people, though) to improve, keep positive (not so easy!! I'm really beginning to prefer animals to people. I'm even beginning to prefer coffee to people), remember that it will take longer than it will for people who haven't had serious illnesses...he went on to say that he has many patients who have had vestibular destruction in only one ear, but they don't do one percent of what I've managed to do. They sit. I guess they sit and rot. I don't sit. I fall over, but I don't sit. And rotting? That's for vegetables. I'm not there yet.
I'm really lucky that I got a supportive vestibular specialist-in fact, I'm really lucky that, after so many years at that crap hospital (Royal London), I've got a really good team at the Royal Free. And-by the way-I discovered on Monday that I'm not imagining things when it comes to the implant.
I've sprung a leak. Yes, one implant is leaking, and that is why I'm in so much pain. I haven't done anything: haven't fallen on it, or knocked it, I've been really careful-but it's leaking. So both implants are being removed. I'm going to have this done at the end of August.
I will -once again - be completely flat. I will have a six pack chest. I will have a nice, flat space to put my laptop. And I was initially a little upset-but I also won't have pain. And I'm cancer free. So I'm not so upset after all-although I did buy some really nice bras, and now I will have to stuff them full of -tissues? Kleenex. If I need a tissue, I'll know where to find it.
Thursday, 29 June 2017
Sometimes life just sucks
All of us have a sucky day-or week-or, sadly, month- or, sometimes, year. Or seven in my case. Well, boo hoo. Moan, moan, whinge, whinge, kvetch, kvetch. You know how it goes. I haven't had a sucky life (yet), so I can consider myself very lucky.
I can bust a few myths, now that I'm cooled down and back at the computer. We had a blistering hot week last week, and right in the middle of it I had to go to central London to meet my new neurologist, the person who took over from Dr. D, who (sadly. Really sadly) retired. And it was the height of the heatwave, and temperatures soared to 100F. I can almost hear my friends in Florida, Pennsylvania, New York-and everywhere, saying "you call that a heatwave??". Well-it is for England. Railroad tracks and roads were buckling, it would have been entertaining, but in the absence of air conditioning-in the absence of air (period), it was just bloody hot. Is this what hell will feel like? Oops-well, yes, I nearly forgot where I am.
I sloshed my way into the hospital to find that they had only fans. So I had to race another patient (I was faster) to a seat immediately in front of a fan (the fan was about 12 feet away, behind a desk), where I proceeded to dry out. Anyone think a hot, sweaty, pissed off stranger is sexy? If so-you're really weird.
Who says that things happen in threes? I always heard that-but we've had four terrorist attacks in two months. There goes that myth, busted. And we know there will be more to come, because there is such a palaver about "human rights" and what is "PC" that people who probably should be watched closely aren't watched at all.
We've had a fire in a 24 story block of flats in one of the richest boroughs in London-yet there was only one way in, one way out, one staircase for 120 flats-and no working sprinkler system. It turns out that the cladding on the outside of the building was-flammable. Flammable! Incredible. And horrifying, because over six hundred tower blocks around the country are found to have the same unsafe cladding. Welcome to England, where incompetence reigns supreme and where poor people die.
Another myth is the myth of manners, intelligence and politeness in the UK. We all know about that bucket of fertilizer (aka sack of shit) because I've told you all the stories. I went to my Tai Chi class on Tuesday night and some beached whale in a pink tutu gave me grief about having an embow crutch. She clearly has an issue with crutches. Or women who don't wear lycra that is so tight they are in danger of bursting like an overstuffed sausage, probably asphyxiating anyone with fifty feet with all their flying fat. I admit I lost my temper, called her Jabba the Hut, and said that she should keep stuffing her face until she explodes. Then she hurled more abuse and I offered to go to reception and get someone to help her out by ordering a fork lift. That went down well...??
So here are some tips for survival over here:
1. Don't get engaged in conversation with anyone. You never know if they're armed. They probably are.
2. Never get involved in an argument with someone who is the size of Jabba the Hut-unless you are the size of Moby Dick, in which case drown them with something out of your blowhole.
3. Never get involved in a dispute with someone who clearly hasn't had a wash since-puberty. Not only will you have to suffer the stench, but you will be ducking anything they have that's crawling on them-and can probably jump. High. And far.
I'm going to Starbucks. I'll see you later. And there's more. Lots more...
I can bust a few myths, now that I'm cooled down and back at the computer. We had a blistering hot week last week, and right in the middle of it I had to go to central London to meet my new neurologist, the person who took over from Dr. D, who (sadly. Really sadly) retired. And it was the height of the heatwave, and temperatures soared to 100F. I can almost hear my friends in Florida, Pennsylvania, New York-and everywhere, saying "you call that a heatwave??". Well-it is for England. Railroad tracks and roads were buckling, it would have been entertaining, but in the absence of air conditioning-in the absence of air (period), it was just bloody hot. Is this what hell will feel like? Oops-well, yes, I nearly forgot where I am.
I sloshed my way into the hospital to find that they had only fans. So I had to race another patient (I was faster) to a seat immediately in front of a fan (the fan was about 12 feet away, behind a desk), where I proceeded to dry out. Anyone think a hot, sweaty, pissed off stranger is sexy? If so-you're really weird.
Who says that things happen in threes? I always heard that-but we've had four terrorist attacks in two months. There goes that myth, busted. And we know there will be more to come, because there is such a palaver about "human rights" and what is "PC" that people who probably should be watched closely aren't watched at all.
We've had a fire in a 24 story block of flats in one of the richest boroughs in London-yet there was only one way in, one way out, one staircase for 120 flats-and no working sprinkler system. It turns out that the cladding on the outside of the building was-flammable. Flammable! Incredible. And horrifying, because over six hundred tower blocks around the country are found to have the same unsafe cladding. Welcome to England, where incompetence reigns supreme and where poor people die.
Another myth is the myth of manners, intelligence and politeness in the UK. We all know about that bucket of fertilizer (aka sack of shit) because I've told you all the stories. I went to my Tai Chi class on Tuesday night and some beached whale in a pink tutu gave me grief about having an embow crutch. She clearly has an issue with crutches. Or women who don't wear lycra that is so tight they are in danger of bursting like an overstuffed sausage, probably asphyxiating anyone with fifty feet with all their flying fat. I admit I lost my temper, called her Jabba the Hut, and said that she should keep stuffing her face until she explodes. Then she hurled more abuse and I offered to go to reception and get someone to help her out by ordering a fork lift. That went down well...??
So here are some tips for survival over here:
1. Don't get engaged in conversation with anyone. You never know if they're armed. They probably are.
2. Never get involved in an argument with someone who is the size of Jabba the Hut-unless you are the size of Moby Dick, in which case drown them with something out of your blowhole.
3. Never get involved in a dispute with someone who clearly hasn't had a wash since-puberty. Not only will you have to suffer the stench, but you will be ducking anything they have that's crawling on them-and can probably jump. High. And far.
I'm going to Starbucks. I'll see you later. And there's more. Lots more...
Monday, 12 June 2017
Not dead yet-but back in the battle (again. Or still
I know it's been a month-and I'm still not dead, although I've felt like I'm stuck in the first circle of Hell. We've had two terrorist attacks in less than a month, and I've had a few dramas of my own.
I've been feeling severe dizziness for a couple of months-dizziness and nystagmus (meaning that my eyes don't focus properly and move around all on their own). That is all down to gentamicin, the gift that keeps on giving. So I've had a tough time blogging-in fact, I've had a tough time walking!
I did the hospital routine - mostly because I had to - and tried not to fall into traffic. I tried to get an earlier appointment with the Queen Square people, who are the go-to guys for vestibular destruction; they have no appointments until July, and no matter how much I called them and cajoled them, they just didn't seem interested. Very, very frustrating.
So that was me, no contact with anyone except by telephone. What on earth would we do without computers, emails, mobile phones? Have some peace and quiet, probably.
The day that I had an MRI was also the day that I heard about the Manchester bombing. I can tell you that I was really upset-not depressed, but angry. How dare these maniacs target children?How dare they target anyone? To be fair, the Mancunians really stepped up to help each other-but they won't return to normal for a long time, if ever.
Then we get another terrorist attack, this time in London-London Bridge and Borough Market are popular areas for tourists, for shopping, for dining out-and eight dead this time. I could not believe it- and we're on alert for another one, somewhere, some time. These nutters just never give up.
It's interesting to note that, looking at the photos of all the terrorists, they are incredibly ugly. No wonder they believe that they will end up with vestal virgins looking after them in Paradise-so they're stupid, too. Where they're going won't be Paradise-and any vestal virgin would look at them and run screaming for the exit. They've probably never been laid.
I borrowed a friend's old laptop to post this, since you might think I got either blown up, shot, or abducted by aliens.
Nope-still here, and although this is taking three times longer than usual, I'm not giving up. People here are calling each other brave, and resilient, and refusing to give in to terrorists. Of course-cowering in fear only gives them more power. And I know more than a little about resilience, courage and the refusal to give in or quit. I know a lot about that; it's been seven years, and I'm still going. I'm like the Energizer bunny.
We've had another election-I think they all suck. Now we have a "hung Parliament"- you only have to look at all the male MPs to see that nobody is well hung.
Iceland is looking more attractive by the minute.
Sunday, 14 May 2017
Attack of the Creeping, Crepitating, Lurking Lurgy
Not dead yet-that is going to be an ongoing joke, I guess. Absolutely not dead! But I was poleaxed by the creeping lurgy. It went all around the hospital-that's how I got it. Even most of the nurses were out sick: a two-week-in-bed virus that knocked the hell out of everyone. Ugh.
I wish I could say that I got lots of sympathy-but no, everyone else was sick,too.
The last time I posted, I was pretty depressed. And I decided that I was boring everyone-especially myself- with moaning, whingeing, bellyaching, and kvetching. Kvetching-I heard someone say that recently, and I felt homesick. Kvetching is one of those great descriptive words that is loved by New Yorkers of all shapes, sizes, religions and ethnic backgrounds. Kvetching. I got fed up with kvetching. So I got up, and went for a very long walk. Uphill, downhill (downhill was easier), stumbling for awhile before I managed to achieve some form of balance...I had to be careful, because I had to avoid all the idiots who don't watch where they're going, but I didn't get catapulted into a shop window, or thrown in front of a bus (it would have been very embarrassing: the 43, very downmarket). But at the end of nearly two hours, I felt much better. The depression lifted, and my legs felt like they were going to drop off (kvetching).
I did all the things I was supposed to do the following week: more hospital visits, and now having to plan to have the implants removed. Two reconstructive operations (very painful. More kvetching), and now they have gone wrong and have to be removed. I won't have them replaced, because there is obviously a reason for the fact that my body is rejecting them. So, back to being flat chested. Oh, well.
I remember when I was in college, and all my friends were very well endowed-and I had to stuff my bra with tissues. True story: my friends didn't say anything, but one evening we were out with a bunch of guys and one of them kept sniffing, and started to ask if anyone had a kleenex. I naturally said, yeah, hang on a minute. As my girlfriends started laughing, I reached down and pulled out a tissue. Everyone was laughing-except the guy, who looked horrified, especially when I said "What? It's clean, it's dry, it's warm, what's the problem?" I dated him for two years. Sometimes I wonder if he ever thinks of me when he blows his nose...
I tried to get online at the library after a week of doing my due diligence. But the computers weren't working, which wasn't a surprise, given that the keyboards were sticky with some kind of biological matter of unknown origin. Gross-who knows who does what around those computers? The staff don't look-it's more than their jobs are worth to make any fuss. In this age of people knifing other people, and throwing acid in people's faces for no known reason, it's no surprise that nobody wants to get involved in any kinds of disputes.
I'm sad about the implants, but I gave all this-and everything-a great deal of thought while I was lying around, coughing and sniffing-and, yes, kvetching. I came to a few conclusions, too. I would rather be flat chested and have no pain-and no cancer-than have breasts and die. That to me is a no-brainer.
I also realized that last week marked exactly four years since the cancer diagnosis. And-I'm coming up to the seventh anniversary (if you can call it an anniversary) of the gentamicin, the gift that just keeps on giving. Of course I'm going to be depressed. I've had a life changing (and life-threatening) seven years. Now I say goodbye to the implants, too-and I really, really hope that this is the end of surgery. I like to feel that I'm turning a corner and not going headfirst into an oncoming express train.
I also realized that I procrastinated over getting a new computer and a new television (the old one is so old it has a slot for a VHS tape, and that hasn't worked since the machine ate one around ten years ago)because I was afraid that I wouldn't be around long enough to enjoy them. Silly? Probably. But I've had the fear that it would come back since the surgery four years ago. That doesn't go away-not for me, anyway.
So I decided that I used to be fearless, and I'm not enjoying life (or living life) by being afraid of everything. I'm working at being fearless again. I bought a 40 inch flat screen television, and I'm waiting for delivery. Now if I can find anything to watch, I can sit in front of it and stare until my eyeballs pop out. I bought a tablet ( touch screen, which I have to get used to, but it's so much better than sticky keys). And-here's another thing- I booked a flight for a week in New York. I'm going back to see everyone before Christmas. New telly? New tablet? A chance to show everyone how far I've come? I can't give up now!
The first place I stop when I reach JFK is the first place I'm going now: Starbucks. Maybe I'll see Trump-so I can punch him in the face.
I wish I could say that I got lots of sympathy-but no, everyone else was sick,too.
The last time I posted, I was pretty depressed. And I decided that I was boring everyone-especially myself- with moaning, whingeing, bellyaching, and kvetching. Kvetching-I heard someone say that recently, and I felt homesick. Kvetching is one of those great descriptive words that is loved by New Yorkers of all shapes, sizes, religions and ethnic backgrounds. Kvetching. I got fed up with kvetching. So I got up, and went for a very long walk. Uphill, downhill (downhill was easier), stumbling for awhile before I managed to achieve some form of balance...I had to be careful, because I had to avoid all the idiots who don't watch where they're going, but I didn't get catapulted into a shop window, or thrown in front of a bus (it would have been very embarrassing: the 43, very downmarket). But at the end of nearly two hours, I felt much better. The depression lifted, and my legs felt like they were going to drop off (kvetching).
I did all the things I was supposed to do the following week: more hospital visits, and now having to plan to have the implants removed. Two reconstructive operations (very painful. More kvetching), and now they have gone wrong and have to be removed. I won't have them replaced, because there is obviously a reason for the fact that my body is rejecting them. So, back to being flat chested. Oh, well.
I remember when I was in college, and all my friends were very well endowed-and I had to stuff my bra with tissues. True story: my friends didn't say anything, but one evening we were out with a bunch of guys and one of them kept sniffing, and started to ask if anyone had a kleenex. I naturally said, yeah, hang on a minute. As my girlfriends started laughing, I reached down and pulled out a tissue. Everyone was laughing-except the guy, who looked horrified, especially when I said "What? It's clean, it's dry, it's warm, what's the problem?" I dated him for two years. Sometimes I wonder if he ever thinks of me when he blows his nose...
I tried to get online at the library after a week of doing my due diligence. But the computers weren't working, which wasn't a surprise, given that the keyboards were sticky with some kind of biological matter of unknown origin. Gross-who knows who does what around those computers? The staff don't look-it's more than their jobs are worth to make any fuss. In this age of people knifing other people, and throwing acid in people's faces for no known reason, it's no surprise that nobody wants to get involved in any kinds of disputes.
I'm sad about the implants, but I gave all this-and everything-a great deal of thought while I was lying around, coughing and sniffing-and, yes, kvetching. I came to a few conclusions, too. I would rather be flat chested and have no pain-and no cancer-than have breasts and die. That to me is a no-brainer.
I also realized that last week marked exactly four years since the cancer diagnosis. And-I'm coming up to the seventh anniversary (if you can call it an anniversary) of the gentamicin, the gift that just keeps on giving. Of course I'm going to be depressed. I've had a life changing (and life-threatening) seven years. Now I say goodbye to the implants, too-and I really, really hope that this is the end of surgery. I like to feel that I'm turning a corner and not going headfirst into an oncoming express train.
I also realized that I procrastinated over getting a new computer and a new television (the old one is so old it has a slot for a VHS tape, and that hasn't worked since the machine ate one around ten years ago)because I was afraid that I wouldn't be around long enough to enjoy them. Silly? Probably. But I've had the fear that it would come back since the surgery four years ago. That doesn't go away-not for me, anyway.
So I decided that I used to be fearless, and I'm not enjoying life (or living life) by being afraid of everything. I'm working at being fearless again. I bought a 40 inch flat screen television, and I'm waiting for delivery. Now if I can find anything to watch, I can sit in front of it and stare until my eyeballs pop out. I bought a tablet ( touch screen, which I have to get used to, but it's so much better than sticky keys). And-here's another thing- I booked a flight for a week in New York. I'm going back to see everyone before Christmas. New telly? New tablet? A chance to show everyone how far I've come? I can't give up now!
The first place I stop when I reach JFK is the first place I'm going now: Starbucks. Maybe I'll see Trump-so I can punch him in the face.
Thursday, 20 April 2017
When the black dog bites-bite back
That bloody dog! Just when I think I'm okay, everything is beginning to work out, I'm finally turning the corner after seven years of excruciating hell-bang! Something else happens. And it did, and that's why I haven't been online since the last time I wrote.
Oh, yeah-and I hope everyone had a happy Easter, ate lots of chocolate, bit the head off a chocolate bunny...and I stress "chocolate bunny"! I said that to someone before Easter, and she was clearly horrified. I had to repeat "CHOCOLATE BUNNY"-thinking that people do really hear what they want to hear, just as they remember things the way they want to remember them (even if those things have no relation to reality). Why would I expect anything more? They're idiots.
Well-back to depression. This one was a big one, and I had to sit and get through it-because I know exactly what triggered it. One of the implants might be leaking. And both implants are going to have to come out. More surgery. How delightful. Every time it looks like I'm finally free and clear, something else seems to crop up. And, because the NHS is in such a mess, I have to live with severe pain and wait for a surgery date. What a bugger.
Depression is very insidious. It hits you like a ton of shit with absolutely no warning. I've got a neighbor who had a liver transplant, and is doing very well, but told me that he has suffered with depression for most of his life. I asked him how he deals with it; he said that he just hides, withdraws, stays away from everyone as much as he can. He also takes antidepressants. Not for me, those. And I have spent over a week hiding out, and doing nothing, and I can tell you-it's boring. Just-boring.
Depression is like some people (you probably know quite a few): it sucks the joy out of everything. The world looks grey, people seem nastier than usual, the world news-well, when the dog bites, the best thing to do is ignore the news, it just makes things worse.
So this morning I dragged myself out of bed (practically kicking and screaming) and decided that enough is enough, I've fought very hard to survive, and I am not going to give in to such blackness. I was always positive, always trying to find a way through anything bad that happened (not only to me, but to my friends and family, too), always the person people came to for advice and for a laugh. My jokes might be terrible, but they always helped someone (usually me). These two weeks were tough.
What I find most interesting is that I have been through enough physical trauma, pain and suffering in these few years to enable me to change my perspective. Of course, I will still make fun of the Brits, because they deserve it-and they're idiots, so it's so easy to pick on sitting targets. Hey, I had a belly full of it for enough years that I feel entitled to now answer back. Most of them are too stupid to get it anyway.
My change in perspective concerns disabled people-whether they're physically or mentally disabled. Case in point: a few weeks ago when I witnessed firsthand someone screaming and having a total meltdown on a bus. That was scary-and I could have said something, but I chose to keep my mouth shut. Never argue with people who are clearly mentally unstable-unless you want to risk getting stabbed or beaten severely. And physically disabled people-I've seen people lurching down the road, staggering from side to side. I always thought they were drunk, or on drugs, and how could they do that so early in the morning...but when I first came out of the hospital after the gentamicin disaster, I couldn't walk at all. Then I had a physio who walked outside with me, keeping close in case I fell over (which I did very often. I still have bruises to prove it). I staggered, and lurched, and heard some very nasty (and very loud) comments from the general idiot population, and that was really very hurtful. Now I realize that these guys just might have a condition that causes loss of balance-a condition that has nothing to do with drugs or drink. I find that I am more tolerant.
Nobody really, really knows whether anyone else is suffering (unless they do it at top volume). So I cut people some slack and I keep my mouth shut. Besides-open your mouth here and you could easily end up in the hospital-or the morgue. It's no safer here than anywhere else.
So, that has been my time away, as it were. I looked at my calendar this morning and had the terrible realization that the first four months of this year are nearly gone-in a flash. And in mid-July I have my final assessment over at Queen Square, where I go through all the original balance tests to see how far I have progressed in seven years. So I've got to put my foot down and get moving.
Of course, this could all be rather pointless if that ignorant, self-serving, arrogant warmonger nukes Korea and starts a third world war. Then you can find me hiding under my desk-with a large cup of Starbucks in one hand and a bag of Kettle Chips in the other.
Oh, yeah-and I hope everyone had a happy Easter, ate lots of chocolate, bit the head off a chocolate bunny...and I stress "chocolate bunny"! I said that to someone before Easter, and she was clearly horrified. I had to repeat "CHOCOLATE BUNNY"-thinking that people do really hear what they want to hear, just as they remember things the way they want to remember them (even if those things have no relation to reality). Why would I expect anything more? They're idiots.
Well-back to depression. This one was a big one, and I had to sit and get through it-because I know exactly what triggered it. One of the implants might be leaking. And both implants are going to have to come out. More surgery. How delightful. Every time it looks like I'm finally free and clear, something else seems to crop up. And, because the NHS is in such a mess, I have to live with severe pain and wait for a surgery date. What a bugger.
Depression is very insidious. It hits you like a ton of shit with absolutely no warning. I've got a neighbor who had a liver transplant, and is doing very well, but told me that he has suffered with depression for most of his life. I asked him how he deals with it; he said that he just hides, withdraws, stays away from everyone as much as he can. He also takes antidepressants. Not for me, those. And I have spent over a week hiding out, and doing nothing, and I can tell you-it's boring. Just-boring.
Depression is like some people (you probably know quite a few): it sucks the joy out of everything. The world looks grey, people seem nastier than usual, the world news-well, when the dog bites, the best thing to do is ignore the news, it just makes things worse.
So this morning I dragged myself out of bed (practically kicking and screaming) and decided that enough is enough, I've fought very hard to survive, and I am not going to give in to such blackness. I was always positive, always trying to find a way through anything bad that happened (not only to me, but to my friends and family, too), always the person people came to for advice and for a laugh. My jokes might be terrible, but they always helped someone (usually me). These two weeks were tough.
What I find most interesting is that I have been through enough physical trauma, pain and suffering in these few years to enable me to change my perspective. Of course, I will still make fun of the Brits, because they deserve it-and they're idiots, so it's so easy to pick on sitting targets. Hey, I had a belly full of it for enough years that I feel entitled to now answer back. Most of them are too stupid to get it anyway.
My change in perspective concerns disabled people-whether they're physically or mentally disabled. Case in point: a few weeks ago when I witnessed firsthand someone screaming and having a total meltdown on a bus. That was scary-and I could have said something, but I chose to keep my mouth shut. Never argue with people who are clearly mentally unstable-unless you want to risk getting stabbed or beaten severely. And physically disabled people-I've seen people lurching down the road, staggering from side to side. I always thought they were drunk, or on drugs, and how could they do that so early in the morning...but when I first came out of the hospital after the gentamicin disaster, I couldn't walk at all. Then I had a physio who walked outside with me, keeping close in case I fell over (which I did very often. I still have bruises to prove it). I staggered, and lurched, and heard some very nasty (and very loud) comments from the general idiot population, and that was really very hurtful. Now I realize that these guys just might have a condition that causes loss of balance-a condition that has nothing to do with drugs or drink. I find that I am more tolerant.
Nobody really, really knows whether anyone else is suffering (unless they do it at top volume). So I cut people some slack and I keep my mouth shut. Besides-open your mouth here and you could easily end up in the hospital-or the morgue. It's no safer here than anywhere else.
So, that has been my time away, as it were. I looked at my calendar this morning and had the terrible realization that the first four months of this year are nearly gone-in a flash. And in mid-July I have my final assessment over at Queen Square, where I go through all the original balance tests to see how far I have progressed in seven years. So I've got to put my foot down and get moving.
Of course, this could all be rather pointless if that ignorant, self-serving, arrogant warmonger nukes Korea and starts a third world war. Then you can find me hiding under my desk-with a large cup of Starbucks in one hand and a bag of Kettle Chips in the other.
Saturday, 8 April 2017
We're here. We brought beer.
Budweiser has arrived-actually, Bud Light has arrived. That is their slogan: we're here. We brought beer. We also had a lot of London's red buses painted an interesting shade of blue to make the point. Personally, with all the microbreweries around, I think that the Budweiser people are very, very brave. And I remember using beer as a hair rinse when I was in college (it was great, and no, I didn't drink it afterwards).
Seeing blue buses-seeing so many buses with advertising plastered all over them (must be hugely expensive)-reminded me of the old Routemaster buses. You can now find them in old movies: double decker, red, no ads on the sides, a conductor (horrors! A conductor!) who had his little ticket machine and who took the money and issued a ticket when you came on board. It was much more romantic then-certainly a lot simpler. Then they discontinued the Routemaster (idiots) and we got all manner of buses to entertain (and frustrate) us. Bring back the Routemaster, I say. And they say: good luck with that. Oh, well. Progress.?
It's been a week of social and political fighting and punchups, and I have finally learned to just keep my head down, keep schtum, avoid discussions with anyone about anything except the weather. That will probably last another week (or maybe a day) and then I'll be back to voicing my opinion. Most of the people in my area don't speak English, so my opinions should be pretty safe.
I'm being bounced out of nearly every clinic-and I've gone from being a professional patient in eight hospitals to being a patient in one. I'm just about (at the end of this month) done with most of the consultants, only to be monitored by a few (very few, thank goodness) either every six months or once a year. I can handle annual visits; it's going to be a question of "how are you? Still alive? Good, see you in a year's time". So I will have lots of time for myself. I'm so used to spending nearly every day at one clinic or another (most of it waiting), I will have to decide what to do next. That is a good thing.
I got very depressed, and very frustrated, knowing that I spent more time in hospital waiting areas than at home. And these last seven years have been tortuous. I nearly quit several times. By "quit" I mean I thought seriously about stopping all the medications, stopping all the hospital visits, selling up and just travelling somewhere, even though I knew that I would be ending my life sooner, rather than later. But I hung on, because I am just too bloody-minded for words. I didn't go through all the pain and suffering to just roll over, quit, wait to die. No, that isn't me at all. So I played the good little patient, went home and punched the pillows a few times (a few million times) in frustration, cried a little, and kept going. I'm glad I did, because I'm coming out the other side. I've got a few glitches, but nothing serious, and I'm really very healthy (finally. For my age, as they have to tell me. Grrr).
I had a small win the other day. I know it's a small one, but hey, a win is a win, no matter what size it is. I held my crutch up and walked about 150 yards, unaided, on a road that had traffic going past me. Did I get dizzy? Once. Did I stop? Nope. Did I fall over? No. That tells me that I am still improving, even though the improvements are so small that I don't notice them. Other people, people I haven't seen in awhile, notice them. That tells me to be positive and to keep going. I might get frustrated and think about giving up, but I only think about it, I don't do it. I think I will put a sign on the wall that says "Never give up". Even after seven years, I must not quit now.
I hope that Bud Light is a huge success in this country. Somebody has to pay for those blue buses (it could be worse. They could be puce).
Seeing blue buses-seeing so many buses with advertising plastered all over them (must be hugely expensive)-reminded me of the old Routemaster buses. You can now find them in old movies: double decker, red, no ads on the sides, a conductor (horrors! A conductor!) who had his little ticket machine and who took the money and issued a ticket when you came on board. It was much more romantic then-certainly a lot simpler. Then they discontinued the Routemaster (idiots) and we got all manner of buses to entertain (and frustrate) us. Bring back the Routemaster, I say. And they say: good luck with that. Oh, well. Progress.?
It's been a week of social and political fighting and punchups, and I have finally learned to just keep my head down, keep schtum, avoid discussions with anyone about anything except the weather. That will probably last another week (or maybe a day) and then I'll be back to voicing my opinion. Most of the people in my area don't speak English, so my opinions should be pretty safe.
I'm being bounced out of nearly every clinic-and I've gone from being a professional patient in eight hospitals to being a patient in one. I'm just about (at the end of this month) done with most of the consultants, only to be monitored by a few (very few, thank goodness) either every six months or once a year. I can handle annual visits; it's going to be a question of "how are you? Still alive? Good, see you in a year's time". So I will have lots of time for myself. I'm so used to spending nearly every day at one clinic or another (most of it waiting), I will have to decide what to do next. That is a good thing.
I got very depressed, and very frustrated, knowing that I spent more time in hospital waiting areas than at home. And these last seven years have been tortuous. I nearly quit several times. By "quit" I mean I thought seriously about stopping all the medications, stopping all the hospital visits, selling up and just travelling somewhere, even though I knew that I would be ending my life sooner, rather than later. But I hung on, because I am just too bloody-minded for words. I didn't go through all the pain and suffering to just roll over, quit, wait to die. No, that isn't me at all. So I played the good little patient, went home and punched the pillows a few times (a few million times) in frustration, cried a little, and kept going. I'm glad I did, because I'm coming out the other side. I've got a few glitches, but nothing serious, and I'm really very healthy (finally. For my age, as they have to tell me. Grrr).
I had a small win the other day. I know it's a small one, but hey, a win is a win, no matter what size it is. I held my crutch up and walked about 150 yards, unaided, on a road that had traffic going past me. Did I get dizzy? Once. Did I stop? Nope. Did I fall over? No. That tells me that I am still improving, even though the improvements are so small that I don't notice them. Other people, people I haven't seen in awhile, notice them. That tells me to be positive and to keep going. I might get frustrated and think about giving up, but I only think about it, I don't do it. I think I will put a sign on the wall that says "Never give up". Even after seven years, I must not quit now.
I hope that Bud Light is a huge success in this country. Somebody has to pay for those blue buses (it could be worse. They could be puce).
Saturday, 1 April 2017
Brexit, Brexit, who's got the Brexit?
I know, this is a very serious business-but Brexit does sound like a cereal-or a biscuit. Have a cup of tea. Would you like a Brexit with that?
Just about everyone on the planet knows that Article 50 was triggered on Wednesday. Now all the weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth is really being cranked up, and all the remainers (known forever as "remoaners") are doing their best to have Brexit overturned. As if...the whole thing seems a bit silly now. For 44 years, Britain has been part of the EU-and now we are leaving. 44 years-that lasted more than most marriages I know (including my own). Nobody-and I do mean "nobody"-really knows for certain what is going to happen when we finally leave. It's driving people crazy.
The most hated prime ministers in a hundred years (or more)- Tony Blair and David Cameron have surfaced like the rats they are to give everyone their concerted opinion. Nobody wants their opinion, they are the odious creatures who caused Brexit in the first place-Brexit and Britain becoming very close to a third world country. Someone needs to give them both a good slap and tell them to shut up. Even the very rich celebrities -JK Rowling, who doesn't seem to do anything for anyone but herself, and likes to pontificate every chance she gets-and Piers Morgan, who was unceremoniously fired from his newspaper job for falsifying evidence and creating a news story that was a complete fabrication-and someone called Lily Allen, who doesn't seem very bright. They're all out in force, and it doesn't affect them, as far as anyone knows.
Until we actually leave the EU-until there is a strategy in place-people should just button it. And the media idiots are nothing less than inflammatory, causing people (who, let's face it, aren't very bright and believe everything they're told anyway) to panic. No panic! Wait and see, people, wait and see.
My news is more optimistic this week. After six weeks of worrying about motor neurone (bearing in mind that I had the feeling that was not the case anyway, so it was counter-productive to give the possibility more time than it deserved-which was none), I went to the hospital and had all the tests. This was on Wednesday; while the press was stirring up hysteria, I was having needles and electrodes stuck in me. I've got the bruising to prove it. I had to wait a day for the final verdict, but the doctor who did the testing said that he didn't think there was any sign of motor neurone.
I had my immunoglobulin infusions on Thursday, and sprinted (as well as I can sprint, given the circumstances) to neurology to get the final verdict. I had a good talk with the neurologist, who told me that I do not have motor neurone. All that drama, all those sleepless nights-for nothing. He also told me that the pinched ulnar nerve I have in the left elbow is getting worse. This, he said, was from years of sports, doing bicep curls (now banned, sadly), and generally abusing my body. He went on to say that constant bending of my arms, elbows on the table, working at the computer-that is the abuse that causes a pinched nerve. We don't realize how delicate the body really is.
I have to see him again in six months, and if the weakness and pain grow worse in that time, he is going to convince me to have surgery. More surgery-what a thrill!! Keep your arm straight, he said: no holding heavy shopping, no doing weights with that arm, etc, etc. So boring. It's more fun to watch the punchups between politicians.
I'll try acupuncture (my friend thinks that might work), and start searching for more alternatives to surgery to fix this problem-and I'll keep you posted on my progress. I'm determined, since I have come such a long way, to stay healthy without any surgical intervention. Besides-hospitals are filled with sick people.
I'm so happy that I don't have anything that will be ultimately fatal-at least, at the moment. I'm being cautiously optimistic that the light I'm finally seeing at the end of the tunnel isn't a speeding Eurostar.
Now it's time to go to Starbucks, my weekly indulgence (sometimes my daily indulgence). I've decided to avoid (as much as possible) the supposition, the conjecture, the inflammatory opinions feebly disguised as "news", and go for a long walk. I can. I must. I'll do my very best not to get run over.
Just about everyone on the planet knows that Article 50 was triggered on Wednesday. Now all the weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth is really being cranked up, and all the remainers (known forever as "remoaners") are doing their best to have Brexit overturned. As if...the whole thing seems a bit silly now. For 44 years, Britain has been part of the EU-and now we are leaving. 44 years-that lasted more than most marriages I know (including my own). Nobody-and I do mean "nobody"-really knows for certain what is going to happen when we finally leave. It's driving people crazy.
The most hated prime ministers in a hundred years (or more)- Tony Blair and David Cameron have surfaced like the rats they are to give everyone their concerted opinion. Nobody wants their opinion, they are the odious creatures who caused Brexit in the first place-Brexit and Britain becoming very close to a third world country. Someone needs to give them both a good slap and tell them to shut up. Even the very rich celebrities -JK Rowling, who doesn't seem to do anything for anyone but herself, and likes to pontificate every chance she gets-and Piers Morgan, who was unceremoniously fired from his newspaper job for falsifying evidence and creating a news story that was a complete fabrication-and someone called Lily Allen, who doesn't seem very bright. They're all out in force, and it doesn't affect them, as far as anyone knows.
Until we actually leave the EU-until there is a strategy in place-people should just button it. And the media idiots are nothing less than inflammatory, causing people (who, let's face it, aren't very bright and believe everything they're told anyway) to panic. No panic! Wait and see, people, wait and see.
My news is more optimistic this week. After six weeks of worrying about motor neurone (bearing in mind that I had the feeling that was not the case anyway, so it was counter-productive to give the possibility more time than it deserved-which was none), I went to the hospital and had all the tests. This was on Wednesday; while the press was stirring up hysteria, I was having needles and electrodes stuck in me. I've got the bruising to prove it. I had to wait a day for the final verdict, but the doctor who did the testing said that he didn't think there was any sign of motor neurone.
I had my immunoglobulin infusions on Thursday, and sprinted (as well as I can sprint, given the circumstances) to neurology to get the final verdict. I had a good talk with the neurologist, who told me that I do not have motor neurone. All that drama, all those sleepless nights-for nothing. He also told me that the pinched ulnar nerve I have in the left elbow is getting worse. This, he said, was from years of sports, doing bicep curls (now banned, sadly), and generally abusing my body. He went on to say that constant bending of my arms, elbows on the table, working at the computer-that is the abuse that causes a pinched nerve. We don't realize how delicate the body really is.
I have to see him again in six months, and if the weakness and pain grow worse in that time, he is going to convince me to have surgery. More surgery-what a thrill!! Keep your arm straight, he said: no holding heavy shopping, no doing weights with that arm, etc, etc. So boring. It's more fun to watch the punchups between politicians.
I'll try acupuncture (my friend thinks that might work), and start searching for more alternatives to surgery to fix this problem-and I'll keep you posted on my progress. I'm determined, since I have come such a long way, to stay healthy without any surgical intervention. Besides-hospitals are filled with sick people.
I'm so happy that I don't have anything that will be ultimately fatal-at least, at the moment. I'm being cautiously optimistic that the light I'm finally seeing at the end of the tunnel isn't a speeding Eurostar.
Now it's time to go to Starbucks, my weekly indulgence (sometimes my daily indulgence). I've decided to avoid (as much as possible) the supposition, the conjecture, the inflammatory opinions feebly disguised as "news", and go for a long walk. I can. I must. I'll do my very best not to get run over.
Saturday, 25 March 2017
London under lockdown (and meltdown)
Another day, another terrorist attack. I was merrily blogging on Wednesday and got home (my second home: the flat, and it's much easier to just call it "home"-because I'm a really lazy typist!) to discover that another lunatic killed three people and injured many more. This time it was at Westminster, and the sick piece of crap killed a policeman, someone who was just minding his own business. Wrong place, wrong time.
Now the fatality count has risen to four-and I wonder how much higher it's going to get...I also wonder how long it'll take the police to find a pair and arm their policemen (and women) to give them at least a fighting chance.
It's all so wrong. I have been keeping up with the news about this latest terrorist, someone who was born in this country and radicalized somewhere along the way. I had a flashback to last week's racially motivated situation on the bus, and I wonder if people who are clearly mentally ill are easy prey for radicalization. Or-is that being too simplistic?
The city was on lockdown. Westminster was filled with police, forensic people...you name it. But as quickly as the city was locked down-and the threat level was raised to severe-people were out in front of the media getting their fifteen minutes of fame, saying that they wouldn't be cowed. No-blown up, stabbed, run over, but not cowed. Such bravado after the fact. The mayor's blustering made me want to run for the sick bag.
I went to see my friend on Thursday, and I took the train from Liverpool Street Station-a place that has so many commuters at any one time, it should be a perfect target for terrorists. Were there any police, or army, was there any presence at all? Nope, nothing. Nada. Zip. We could all have been blown to pieces, and there was nobody there to deal with it. Amazing.
How do we deal with what the media call the "so-called Islamic State"- which isn't a state, and has nothing to do with Islam, only with nutters who like killing innocent people? Can we really eradicate those who have been indoctrinated to such a degree that they have lost their humanity, and seem to kill for the joy of killing? I wish I had the answer to that. I think a lot of people wish we had the answer to that.
Meanwhile, we can listen to all the bluster, and the false bravado, and the amazing amount of bullshit being spouted by the government, the media-and just about everyone else in the limelight (or desperately wanting to be in the limelight), or we can simply be vigilant, go about our daily business, and understand that by causing trauma, drama and chaos, the terrorists are winning.
I said that I have had seven years of hell, and I stand by that. I've spent so much time at different hospitals, in different clinics, being poked, prodded, irradiated, scanned, bled, and whatever, that I joked several times that I should just move in, since I spend very little time at home. Have I enjoyed it? Hell, no, it has been incredibly frustrating to be everyone's lab rat. I resented it so much that I was ready (several times) to just jack it all in, refuse all treatments, and tests, and go off and live something resembling a life, even if it meant I only had a year in which to do it all. But-something told me not to do that. Was it survival instinct? Or stupidity? Bloody-mindedness? Or the fact that I would miss season 8 of The Walking Dead?
I've just been discharged (yesterday) from the cardiology clinic. The consultant was a bit gruff, but perhaps that is just his way-or he wanted to just drill in the fact that he doesn't want to monitor me, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, even though the Royal London twits said otherwise. My heart is great. If I die prematurely, it won't be because of my heart. This, of course, is fantastic to hear, since my heart is one of my top ten organs, and I'm rather fond if it.
I sat last night and looked at my diary, and realized that from the first week in April, I have practically no hospital appointments. I have the usual antibody replacement infusions, and the odd consultants-but I'm nearly there, nearly free, for the first time in seven years. Booyah. Next week I have the tests to show that I don't have motor neurone-or anything else, for that matter-and then that's it. I have to think about how I'm going to celebrate-obviously try not to get myself blown to pieces somewhere. Or run over. Huh. The mind boggles.
I've worked so hard to get where I am now. I'm not finished yet. My next step is to start looking for vestibular support groups and see if we can, together, start a class action suit against the makers of gentamicin. But-I won't be obsessive about it. I finally have a chance to start living, and by God, I'm going to take it.
Now the fatality count has risen to four-and I wonder how much higher it's going to get...I also wonder how long it'll take the police to find a pair and arm their policemen (and women) to give them at least a fighting chance.
It's all so wrong. I have been keeping up with the news about this latest terrorist, someone who was born in this country and radicalized somewhere along the way. I had a flashback to last week's racially motivated situation on the bus, and I wonder if people who are clearly mentally ill are easy prey for radicalization. Or-is that being too simplistic?
The city was on lockdown. Westminster was filled with police, forensic people...you name it. But as quickly as the city was locked down-and the threat level was raised to severe-people were out in front of the media getting their fifteen minutes of fame, saying that they wouldn't be cowed. No-blown up, stabbed, run over, but not cowed. Such bravado after the fact. The mayor's blustering made me want to run for the sick bag.
I went to see my friend on Thursday, and I took the train from Liverpool Street Station-a place that has so many commuters at any one time, it should be a perfect target for terrorists. Were there any police, or army, was there any presence at all? Nope, nothing. Nada. Zip. We could all have been blown to pieces, and there was nobody there to deal with it. Amazing.
How do we deal with what the media call the "so-called Islamic State"- which isn't a state, and has nothing to do with Islam, only with nutters who like killing innocent people? Can we really eradicate those who have been indoctrinated to such a degree that they have lost their humanity, and seem to kill for the joy of killing? I wish I had the answer to that. I think a lot of people wish we had the answer to that.
Meanwhile, we can listen to all the bluster, and the false bravado, and the amazing amount of bullshit being spouted by the government, the media-and just about everyone else in the limelight (or desperately wanting to be in the limelight), or we can simply be vigilant, go about our daily business, and understand that by causing trauma, drama and chaos, the terrorists are winning.
I said that I have had seven years of hell, and I stand by that. I've spent so much time at different hospitals, in different clinics, being poked, prodded, irradiated, scanned, bled, and whatever, that I joked several times that I should just move in, since I spend very little time at home. Have I enjoyed it? Hell, no, it has been incredibly frustrating to be everyone's lab rat. I resented it so much that I was ready (several times) to just jack it all in, refuse all treatments, and tests, and go off and live something resembling a life, even if it meant I only had a year in which to do it all. But-something told me not to do that. Was it survival instinct? Or stupidity? Bloody-mindedness? Or the fact that I would miss season 8 of The Walking Dead?
I've just been discharged (yesterday) from the cardiology clinic. The consultant was a bit gruff, but perhaps that is just his way-or he wanted to just drill in the fact that he doesn't want to monitor me, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, even though the Royal London twits said otherwise. My heart is great. If I die prematurely, it won't be because of my heart. This, of course, is fantastic to hear, since my heart is one of my top ten organs, and I'm rather fond if it.
I sat last night and looked at my diary, and realized that from the first week in April, I have practically no hospital appointments. I have the usual antibody replacement infusions, and the odd consultants-but I'm nearly there, nearly free, for the first time in seven years. Booyah. Next week I have the tests to show that I don't have motor neurone-or anything else, for that matter-and then that's it. I have to think about how I'm going to celebrate-obviously try not to get myself blown to pieces somewhere. Or run over. Huh. The mind boggles.
I've worked so hard to get where I am now. I'm not finished yet. My next step is to start looking for vestibular support groups and see if we can, together, start a class action suit against the makers of gentamicin. But-I won't be obsessive about it. I finally have a chance to start living, and by God, I'm going to take it.
Wednesday, 22 March 2017
Just when you thought it was safe to come out of the water...
Another day, another day of head down, keep mouth firmly shut.
It's been a week of-well, almost a holiday, because I have no hospital appointments this week. None. It's been seven years, and this is about as rare as finding hens' teeth. Bearing in mind last week's dealing with food poisoning, followed closely by witnessing what may (or may not) have been a racially motivated confrontation, I'd say this has been an okay week. So far. But it's only Wednesday, so anything can happen. Cynic? Moi?
I told my friend in Ireland about the two women on the bus-and she said that it happens everywhere, that people have a chip on their shoulder, or they're feeling like they are entitled to be special-or they're just batshit crazy (she said crazy. I added the "batshit"). I seriously doubt that anyone in his right mind would say the word they alleged that he said-on a packed bus, with children present, and two clearly mentally disturbed people standing there, just obviously looking to start a fight.We all saw it-and, wisely, nobody said anything. Nobody wants to be stabbed, and that happens here all the time.
That did teach me something, however. It showed me that I must never call anyone who crashes into me deliberately (and you would be surprised how often that happens. I should be wearing body armor) an imbecile. Who knows who is armed, or who will just turn around and punch me in the face? I like my face the way it is, thanks. So I must show more restraint and just deliver a filthy look, without the verbal abuse, regardless of how much it is deserved.
And-it's back to the gym, no more goofing off. In July I get retested, and I really want to be a lot further on than I am now.
You'll like this (but not a lot). Last week I was early for my infusions, and I was just turning the corner of the clinic when the Anti-Christ came around the corner with his patient. We looked at each other and said good morning. Personally, I would rather have spat in his eye, but I think that I'm beyond that now (hopefully).
Bucky Buckland complained about the blog in an effort, I think, to have me thrown out of the Royal Free, too-but he failed miserably. Apparently I'm very popular in the clinic, and the staff like treating me-or so I'm told. They, of course, haven't seen me go for the jugular, which I did with Bucky, who absolutely deserved it. So I can afford to smile.
It's been a week of-well, almost a holiday, because I have no hospital appointments this week. None. It's been seven years, and this is about as rare as finding hens' teeth. Bearing in mind last week's dealing with food poisoning, followed closely by witnessing what may (or may not) have been a racially motivated confrontation, I'd say this has been an okay week. So far. But it's only Wednesday, so anything can happen. Cynic? Moi?
I told my friend in Ireland about the two women on the bus-and she said that it happens everywhere, that people have a chip on their shoulder, or they're feeling like they are entitled to be special-or they're just batshit crazy (she said crazy. I added the "batshit"). I seriously doubt that anyone in his right mind would say the word they alleged that he said-on a packed bus, with children present, and two clearly mentally disturbed people standing there, just obviously looking to start a fight.We all saw it-and, wisely, nobody said anything. Nobody wants to be stabbed, and that happens here all the time.
That did teach me something, however. It showed me that I must never call anyone who crashes into me deliberately (and you would be surprised how often that happens. I should be wearing body armor) an imbecile. Who knows who is armed, or who will just turn around and punch me in the face? I like my face the way it is, thanks. So I must show more restraint and just deliver a filthy look, without the verbal abuse, regardless of how much it is deserved.
And-it's back to the gym, no more goofing off. In July I get retested, and I really want to be a lot further on than I am now.
You'll like this (but not a lot). Last week I was early for my infusions, and I was just turning the corner of the clinic when the Anti-Christ came around the corner with his patient. We looked at each other and said good morning. Personally, I would rather have spat in his eye, but I think that I'm beyond that now (hopefully).
Bucky Buckland complained about the blog in an effort, I think, to have me thrown out of the Royal Free, too-but he failed miserably. Apparently I'm very popular in the clinic, and the staff like treating me-or so I'm told. They, of course, haven't seen me go for the jugular, which I did with Bucky, who absolutely deserved it. So I can afford to smile.
Saturday, 18 March 2017
Not such a muggins after all...
I'm a day late in wishing everyone a happy St. Patrick's Day-late as usual, rather like that well known airline, Every Landing Always Late. But this time, I have a reasonably okay excuse: CBT, also known as Chinese Bad Tummy. Food poisoning. My friend and I decided to go for a Chinese, and that was fine, except that I completely forgot that there is a reason why I haven't been to this local place in over two years-and that was the reason! I won't elaborate: if you've ever had a bad meal out, you already know the consequences.
So, I hope that everyone got wasted, drunk and disorderly (if that's your thing, I hope you went for it), and as long as you didn't hurt yourself or anyone else-or topple into oncoming traffic, or catapult yourself out of a window, I don't see the harm in celebrating. The pubs around me were filled with people who were so paralytic they were gripping the walls, the floors, the bars, each other...it was great fun to watch, at least for as long as I could, under the circumstances!
I've been feeling like a real sucker for awhile; it isn't the first time I've been played, and it probably won't be the last, because I know what it feels like to have cancer and have no help or support (at least, in this country; my friends were very supportive, but they're all across the pond, which does a lot, but not when I need someone nearby).
I discovered - just before the food poisoning-that my neighbor does, indeed, have cancer, and it seems to have metastasized, because he was too afraid to go to get it checked out. This came from his neighbor, who is his closest friend-and, although I criticized him in my last post, it turns out that he is badly in debt, so he couldn't help out. Now Mr. X (yes, I know-another one) is in hospital awaiting surgery, my friend (the one who said I'm a muggins) has gotten rid of the stuff that Mr. X wanted to sell, I got some money back, and everyone's happy. Well-Mr. X can't be too happy, but at least he is being looked after. So things turned out okay (ish) in the end.
Things aren't so great at home, though. Apart from freak snow storms, Trump is still screwing up our country. Nobody shot him yet-unfortunately. What he needs is some Chinese food-laced with rat poison. Very appropriate, I'd say. But, of course, I am a pacifist...
Things are pretty much the same here. The Scottish government is battling Parliament, train drivers are striking, transport is a nightmare for people who spend thousands of pounds every year to commute to work, people are just killing each other for no good reason, and the NHS is in such bad shape that nobody knows how long it will be before the entire system collapses. It's the usual: SSDD (Same Shit, Different Day).
As for me, I'm keeping my head down and trying to avoid being caught in the crossfire. I was coming back from the hospital the other day, and two black women started screaming at some white guy, claiming that he called them the "n" word. They screamed obscenities and threats at top volume, and they were so far over the top that most of the rest of us (the bus was full, and there were a lot of young children on it, too) became very apprehensive. These two deranged nutters just kept screaming, and threatening. If they'd been sane, they would have taken it down a few dozen notches. But he said that he didn't call them anything, and they started cursing at him and at everyone else. If you'd heard them, you would have thought they'd escaped from some mental asylum. And they were looking around, trying to find allies in their abuse; the rest of us (wisely, I thought) didn't give them the satisfaction of engaging with them in any way. I thought there would be cheering when the two loonies left the bus-but no, we all just breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Why didn't the driver kick them off? Because they were clearly demented, and he wasn't going to risk his life getting involved. Too many innocent people have died for much less.
I felt badly about this for a couple of days-although I felt worse about my poor, sick guts-and I can't help but think that people like these two should be under sedation-and treatment. But the NHS is crippled, and slowly dying. A friend of mine called me the other day-I'd left him a message asking him about his wife, who was seriously ill with a malignant brain tumor-and updated me. He said that the chemotherapy worked, and she seems to be turning the corner, although they've now found a new tumor (but a smaller one). He said that he didn't think they would do another course of chemotherapy on her because of monetary constraints, but they will try radiation. I was shocked: no chemo because they're trying to save money? Don't lives matter? Obviously not.
So there you have it: the update. Next week I have one hospital appointment, the following week I will (I hope!) be told that this motor neurone thing is a load of nonsense, and for the next few months (apart from the infusions, which will be for life), I am a free woman. Yikes! All that cleaning, I will be busy! And back to the gym.
I've had seven years of hell, and seven years of being what I call a "professional patient". I've spent more time in hospital clinics (most of it waiting to see someone) than I have doing anything else. Now I feel like I'm being paroled. Of course, that is usually when something bad happens-so maybe I'll just wait and see. Starbucks is calling.
So, I hope that everyone got wasted, drunk and disorderly (if that's your thing, I hope you went for it), and as long as you didn't hurt yourself or anyone else-or topple into oncoming traffic, or catapult yourself out of a window, I don't see the harm in celebrating. The pubs around me were filled with people who were so paralytic they were gripping the walls, the floors, the bars, each other...it was great fun to watch, at least for as long as I could, under the circumstances!
I've been feeling like a real sucker for awhile; it isn't the first time I've been played, and it probably won't be the last, because I know what it feels like to have cancer and have no help or support (at least, in this country; my friends were very supportive, but they're all across the pond, which does a lot, but not when I need someone nearby).
I discovered - just before the food poisoning-that my neighbor does, indeed, have cancer, and it seems to have metastasized, because he was too afraid to go to get it checked out. This came from his neighbor, who is his closest friend-and, although I criticized him in my last post, it turns out that he is badly in debt, so he couldn't help out. Now Mr. X (yes, I know-another one) is in hospital awaiting surgery, my friend (the one who said I'm a muggins) has gotten rid of the stuff that Mr. X wanted to sell, I got some money back, and everyone's happy. Well-Mr. X can't be too happy, but at least he is being looked after. So things turned out okay (ish) in the end.
Things aren't so great at home, though. Apart from freak snow storms, Trump is still screwing up our country. Nobody shot him yet-unfortunately. What he needs is some Chinese food-laced with rat poison. Very appropriate, I'd say. But, of course, I am a pacifist...
Things are pretty much the same here. The Scottish government is battling Parliament, train drivers are striking, transport is a nightmare for people who spend thousands of pounds every year to commute to work, people are just killing each other for no good reason, and the NHS is in such bad shape that nobody knows how long it will be before the entire system collapses. It's the usual: SSDD (Same Shit, Different Day).
As for me, I'm keeping my head down and trying to avoid being caught in the crossfire. I was coming back from the hospital the other day, and two black women started screaming at some white guy, claiming that he called them the "n" word. They screamed obscenities and threats at top volume, and they were so far over the top that most of the rest of us (the bus was full, and there were a lot of young children on it, too) became very apprehensive. These two deranged nutters just kept screaming, and threatening. If they'd been sane, they would have taken it down a few dozen notches. But he said that he didn't call them anything, and they started cursing at him and at everyone else. If you'd heard them, you would have thought they'd escaped from some mental asylum. And they were looking around, trying to find allies in their abuse; the rest of us (wisely, I thought) didn't give them the satisfaction of engaging with them in any way. I thought there would be cheering when the two loonies left the bus-but no, we all just breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Why didn't the driver kick them off? Because they were clearly demented, and he wasn't going to risk his life getting involved. Too many innocent people have died for much less.
I felt badly about this for a couple of days-although I felt worse about my poor, sick guts-and I can't help but think that people like these two should be under sedation-and treatment. But the NHS is crippled, and slowly dying. A friend of mine called me the other day-I'd left him a message asking him about his wife, who was seriously ill with a malignant brain tumor-and updated me. He said that the chemotherapy worked, and she seems to be turning the corner, although they've now found a new tumor (but a smaller one). He said that he didn't think they would do another course of chemotherapy on her because of monetary constraints, but they will try radiation. I was shocked: no chemo because they're trying to save money? Don't lives matter? Obviously not.
So there you have it: the update. Next week I have one hospital appointment, the following week I will (I hope!) be told that this motor neurone thing is a load of nonsense, and for the next few months (apart from the infusions, which will be for life), I am a free woman. Yikes! All that cleaning, I will be busy! And back to the gym.
I've had seven years of hell, and seven years of being what I call a "professional patient". I've spent more time in hospital clinics (most of it waiting to see someone) than I have doing anything else. Now I feel like I'm being paroled. Of course, that is usually when something bad happens-so maybe I'll just wait and see. Starbucks is calling.
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