PTSD, Professor Google, and me

I wonder if anyone was ever electrocuted by sweating all over their computer...sounds like an interesting question, but one that doesn't seem to have a definitive answer. Hmmm...

It's been that kind of week: severe heat (severe as in over 100 degrees Fahrenheit on one day, over 90 on several others), and, of course, no air conditioning. I would even dare to venture outside-and think that when I turned crispy, just turn me over and fry the other side. And so many people were loving just getting their kit off, hanging out and turning beet red. There were warnings about being outside between 11am and 3pm- but I guess a lot of people don't really mind setting themselves up for heat stroke. Me, I'm out in the sun for five minutes without being covered up and I turn the color of beetroot and then peel, and I'm back to my natural color: I look like I'm ready for embalming. So much for a healthy (or unhealthy) tan.

I was in clinic on the hottest day of recent history-last week-and I met another patient I only see annually. Jo usually comes on other days, and not as regularly as I do, so it was good to catch up. It was good until she told me about her nephew, who was given the wrong medication while in hospital and ended up with severe brain damage. Except for the "severe brain damage", this was a familiar story. No apology from the hospital, only feeble excuses (another familiar story). The family wanted to sue, but were told that the hospital wouldn't accept liability and would mess them around until they were bankrupt. Another familiar story!

Jo knew about the whole gentamicin disaster-same hospital, too (no surprises there), and she was asking me whether I was able to let the whole matter go. After all, it has now been (almost exactly) nine years of hell. We had a long chat-infusions take four hours-so we had lots of time to compare notes. And Jo, whose husband works with PTSD patients, suggested that I had that from the time the hospital nearly killed me, still have it, and should find someone who specializes in the disorder.

This is really important, because I always associated PTSD with the military, or police, or victims of terrorism...you know what I mean, people who are severely traumatized by things that happen to them. I never associated it with being nearly killed (and essentially rendered disabled) by hospital incompetence. No, Jo said, that is a misconception; severe trauma is severe trauma.

Who knew? I've had to cope (for better or worse-usually worse) by myself for nine years. So I promised Jo that I would look into it. And I haven't-yet-because I still don't think of myself as someone who is brave, bearing up-what I went through isn't in the same category as the categories I mentioned. It was an interesting theory of Jo's, though.

So that brings me up to the present. And clearing out the storage units, something that I have two weeks to do-heat or no heat, I have to do it. So this is where I step up and get ruthless.

I thought a lot about what Jo was saying-trying to be helpful, which I always appreciate- and I remembered a quote I read years ago. Confucius, maybe? Or Epictetus? Doesn't really matter, since they're both dead. But whoever it was said that one should never seek revenge; seeking revenge is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

Obviously, they weren't from Essex. Or anywhere in this country, for that matter.

After Carter the Musical Farter

There is life after Carter-only things were a little unexpected, to say the least!
I thought that, after the absolutely horrible 2018, that this year would be better-or, at least, benign. Nope-no such luck.

I started to have back pain-and anyone who suffers from back pain knows what a joy that isn't. I thought about the symptoms, and didn't even need to consult Professor Google to work out that I might have a kidney infection. The usual symptoms-which, of course, I ignored, since I'm really fed up with being a professional patient. But-kidneys are kidneys, backs are backs, and I went to the doc's a few days after I last entertained you with tales of Carter. Sure enough: nine hours in the hospital Ambulatory Care Center (if you can walk in, you will spend so much time there, you'll start to take root), some idiot tapping my vein twice (someone who was so "experienced" they couldn't find a vein if it was the size of the M1 motorway), and they put me on Cephalexin, the go to antibiotic for kidney infections.

I sat in the waiting area and watched people come and go, and although I explained my dilemma about having no immune system (from birth, I had to explain, so the numpties wouldn't panic), I sat. And sat. And sat. I was getting so wound up that I decided to take my mind off people coughing and sneezing, and there was no tea, coffee or water-and I couldn't get up and get any, because I was told that I would be moved to the end of the list. I thought of limericks.

I always forget the punchline of jokes-and there's nothing as irritating as someone telling a funny joke and forgetting the punchline just at the crucial moment. Limericks-well, I only know a few. My ex knew dozens-possibly hundreds. His school was one of those where the motto was "never leave your friends behind". Or maybe that was "never leave your friend's behind", I always suspected that. Eton and Harrow are the schools that are most suspicious in that area. Ex used to say that if you dropped a pencil, you just didn't bend over and pick it up. You kicked it against the wall -if you could-and then stood with your back against the wall to bend very quickly to get your pencil. It seems that bending over when you're at a boys' school is pretty lethal. He also used to say that, when the boys were (and are, nothing has changed. Allegedly) experimenting with limericks, they also were experimenting with each other. Hmmm....that explains a lot.

So I thought of a few that might amuse you, if you liked Carter. Obviously, I had nothing else to do except drink tons of water and take tablets. So, for your amusement:

A theological student from Kings
Once dreamt of heavenly things
But his only desire
Was a boy in the choir
With an ass like a jelly on springs

I like this one, so I must be weird:

There once was a hooker called Alice
Who used dynamite sticks for a phallus
They found her vagina
in South Carolina
And bits of her tits fell on Dallas

And one of my all time favorites:

There was a young girl from Madras
Who had an adorable ass
Not rounded and pink
As you probably think
It was grey, had long ears and ate grass

And my personal favorite, the first I heard when I was a limerick virgin:

There was a young fellow from Leeds
Who swallowed a packet of seeds
In less than an hour
His ass was aflower
And his balls were all covered in weeds

So there you are: how I spend my time when I have a kidney infection. Isn't that productive?

I just got a call from the Whittington, one of the worst hospitals in London (or anywhere): I only went there, very reluctantly, because the GP (who obviously hates me) insisted that I go there (never, ever again!). They want me to come back so they can check me over and ruin the veins in the other arm by trying to tap veins that don't exist. So I said the obvious thing: you know the words "hell, freezing and over"? That's when I'll be back.

Now they hate me, too. Boo hoo. I'm going to Starbucks. Infection be damned.

The Cosmic Law of Mr. Murphy

Just when things are looking up. Ish...it's Murphy's Law in action. The joys of constant vertigo (thanks to gentamicin, the gift that keeps on giving). And BPPV- for anyone who is new to this blog, that's Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo-of course, that's for those who are really nerdy (like me), and who want to know what everything means. The crystals of the inner ear (needed for balance) decide to pack their bags and go walkies. While they're on holiday, I'm stumbling all over the place. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you. I bump into things while trying to remain upright. Even my bruises have bruises.

Add to that the fact that it is very, very hot. All my friends at home will laugh at me saying that-because it is summertime, and it's supposed to be in the 80s-and sometimes the 90s. But the only places that have come into the 21st century are the supermarkets (the larger ones) and the major department stores. Everyone else-well, we all just sweat. And when I say sweat, I do mean sweat. There' no such thing as women "glowing", or men "lightly perspiring"- what idiot decided on those terms, anyway? We all sweat. And some of us walk around leaving a trail behind us.

I have to say that this is my least favorite time of the year-I do not do heat very well. In fact, I do not do heat at all. I'm short, so when I'm on the Underground or in a bus-or anywhere with lots of people around- I inevitably come up to someone's armpit. And usually that someone hasn't ever heard of soap and water. And usually that someone has had a huge curry-or a huge amount of garlic-the night before. You get the picture.

So now you know what I've been up to since the last time I posted. I did get to Independence Day (belated happy 4th. I hope that you celebrated), had two lots of Epley maneuver from my physio for the BPPV, but still couldn't do much of any consequence. Only-in November the Brits celebrate Guy Fawkes Day-November 5th, when the poor sap tried (and failed) to blow up the houses of Parliament. No comment on we could use someone better at it today...

Every November I stock up on fireworks-I save them for July 4th, then wait until it's dark and go to the local park to set them off. This is, of course, an offense. Legally you are only allowed to set off fireworks in November 5th-so I could be arrested and imprisoned if I get caught. Trust them here to arrest and jail someone who is setting off fireworks, in a safe place, but not on their holiday-on mine. I would probably get a longer jail sentence than someone who commits mass murder.

The problem with the fireworks here-apart from the fact that they're hideously expensive- is that they're nowhere near as strong as the ones we get at home (from Georgia, the firework capital of the USA). Honestly, you could fart louder than some of the stuff they sell here.If you want proof, just stand in an Underground station and wait for a delayed train. Trust me.

Now-every Independence Day I phone everyone at home. And every Independence Day I get homesick. And maudlin. I was thinking back to everything important that ever happened to me-and I remember years of fireworks in the back garden and terrible limericks. My ex went to an all boys' school, and the boys all seemed to try to make up the grossest limericks.Some were hilarious, and some were-really cringe-worthy. But there are several about farting (of course. Boys will be boys), and I remember one that is somewhere in the middle range, depending on your mood at the time. And here goes:

There once was a fellow called Carter
He was known as a musical farter
He could fart anything from God Save the Queen
To Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata

Don't say I didn't warn you. At least it made me smile. I obviously have to get out more.

And where am I off to now? Starbucks, of course. I'm giving them so much free publicity!