A Very Blimpy Christmas

Christmas dinner suddenly became a huge deal. There were nine of us around the table: eight Brits (well, six English, one Scots, one Welsh)-and me. So I thought it would be prudent to watch myself and not say anything controversial. I needn't have worried.

I'm exaggerating, of course-but it seemed like there was enough food to feed a small third world country. The table was just groaning. Before long, we were all groaning. My old friend Terry is a really good cook. Her coffee could double as paint stripper, but that is a very British condition - everything else just was great. And we all ate too much, and drank too much...I felt like I could paint a stripe down my side and double as the Goodyear blimp. Really-I looked like a Zeppelin at the end of the evening. I didn't eat as much as anyone else-but I ate way too much for me. I'm not used to looking down and seeing a belly that looks like I have swallowed Manchester United. All of them.

And we drank. Of course. I had four drinks (wow, so much for me!!) and I discovered that I had drunk myself sober. I wish I'd taken a camera-or a tape recorder. Boy, could I have had some good stuff for blackmail! The more everyone drank, the more they all slagged off this country, the media, the royals, the government-you name it, and I was in my element. Brits slagging off Brits-go figure. I just sat and smiled. And drank. And ate. And thought I was going to explode. But it was a really good Christmas. And then, the next day (Boxing Day in this country), we did it all over again. Gluttons for punishment. Or-just gluttons.

Boxing Day was (allegedly-everyone has a different opinion) originally the day that the landowners presented a box to their employees: food, dry goods, money, whatever-as a token of thanks for all the year's work. That is, some say, the meaning of Boxing Day. Originally. Now, Boxing Day is the beginning of the after-Christmas sales. All the shops have huge sales that go into January (the January sales). So nutjobs who want to grab cheap, nasty sale televisions and crack open the skull of some poor sap who is after the same piece of junk have a second chance to do some real damage. Honestly? I keep a very low profile after Christmas when it comes to shopping. Who wants to reach out to grab something and have some lunatic break your arm?

Can you imagine if aliens came to earth and monitored our behavior? They would come to the Boxing Day and January sales and conclude that everyone here is totally insane, and that earth is filled with savages who aren't worth worrying about. Someone should do a film about that...

One of the topics of conversation was aging-a wonderful topic for Christmas, don't you think? We all agreed that one of the first things to go when you hit middle age-after lines, wrinkles, sagging skin, liver spots, aches and pains, grey hair, and assorted other grumbles-is the memory. Once you hit 40, it's all downhill from there. Who cares who says differently? You begin to forget things. You begin to forget things. You begin..(sorry, couldn't resist that. Terrible, wasn't it?)

I coined a name for this condition when I hit forty and the fertilizer began to hit the fan (Christmas. I'm being polite. That  ends tomorrow). I call it: CRS-which means Can't Remember Shit. I'm surprised I remembered that-but I cheated, I wrote it down. CRS got the seal of approval from everyone. We had all tried all kinds of memory training-but fighting CRS? My solution: writing things down. Now all I need to remember once I have written everything down is what I did with the paper...It's possibly with my keys. I can never find those, either. And CRS hits when you get to 40. Sometimes it hits at 35, or 25. If you're from Essex, it hits at 12.

That was my Christmas. And yesterday, there was ice on the ground (the borough never salts or grits the roads or pavement; they want people to fall over and break things and end up in the hospital. That is how they get their jollies. Idiots.), and I went, as the (cute) saying goes, ass over tit and ended up splat on the ground in the middle of the road. Some prat stopped his car and waited for me to get up and move out of his way. Did he help? Of course not. He just looked, looked at his watch, and waved his arm for me to move. I wanted to wave my arm-complete with one finger sticking up-but I was afraid he might drive over me. So much for the absolute myth of the Brits having manners. But I was only bruised-which is good, because I didn't want to be carted off to hospital. Who knows which part of my anatomy they might amputate?

Now I am getting ready for New Year's Eve-but I will do what I did on Boxing Day: eat very, very little.It took me two days just to be able to zip up my jeans! I will have a few drinks, though. After all, calories don't count until tomorrow. And I think I ate at least a week's worth of those last week.

I haven't written any new year's resolutions yet-not because I will write them and forget where I put them, but because I always end up breaking them the next day. But I am thinking about it. I do know that I have had a very, very bad five years-very bad. Gentamicin in 2010 trumps everything-all the bad chest infections, all the other stuff-but cancer trumps that. If I could wipe out 2010 through 2014, I would do so in a millisecond. But that all happened, and I need to somehow let it go. So I think that number one on my new year's resolution list would have to be to let go of everything (and everyone)-difficult to do, easy to say.

I'm working on it. And by tomorrow I will have a list of resolutions I will really keep. No shopping. No more stuff. Health-that comes first. If you don't have your health, what else could possibly matter?

Happy New Year. Celebrate. Eat (oh, no, not again!!), drink (absolutely), and leave 2014 behind. In my case, well behind. It's a new year. It's a new chapter. I don't know how long I am going to be here, but I can tell you that I will make the most of every minute. So-see you tomorrow!!!!

Somebody get me a gun.....

I've said that for years, every time I get upset by someone. You can imagine how often I've said it since I've lived here: practically every other sentence!! Of course, if someone did actually give me a gun, I would probably fall over while shooting myself in the foot. So much for a gun.

So who pissed me off this time? The same people who pissed me off the last time: the builders. Are they finished? Hell, no - they have to make a return visit after New Year's - oh lucky me. I'm amazed that no walls have fallen down. Yet. Who knows what will happen while they are hiding wherever it is they're hiding?

Now, here is the thing. My kitchen measures a measly 8 feet from wall to wall, not from cabinet to cabinet. On the other side it measures-maybe 8 feet, but certainly no more than that. And the major work was done on the first day. The wall cabinets that needed replacing were done, the electric socket moved, two cupboards and the washing machine were moved...all the rest was supposed to be simple painting, some filling in of holes,stuff that could have -and should have - been completely finished in less than a week. But that is assuming the workmen were competent. We are talking about Mulalley, after all.

Since this is Christmas Day-and it has taken a long time for me to actually unpack the computer, set it up, and clean all the places that were covered (but still ended up covered in dust. Including my lungs)-here is a question for you. And I will get a little biblical (after all, it is Christmas. Get biblical).

If creation took only six days, how is it that the workmen couldn't paint one ceiling and three (part) walls, and do the bits of decorating-in two full weeks? Two weeks? And still not finished. A chimpanzee with a paintbrush and a screwdriver could have finished in three days. Obviously Mulalley should have hired chimps. One "painter" was supposed to paint the doorframe, then return to do the ceiling and walls. It took him two and a half hours to paint a simple doorframe-then he disappeared, not to be seen again for a week. Must be the effect I have on idiots.

It has all been about the bloody kitchen. This has been going on for nine and a half months, since they first ripped out the old kitchen. I could have had a baby in that time. You could have had a baby in that time. We all could have had a football team in that time. Personally, I would rather have a kitchen...

So that has been my November/December from Hell. And all the hospital stuff finished on Tuesday, so I am free to try to put my apartment back to normal now. Or, normal-ish.

So it is Christmas, and I meant to wish you all a very Merry Christmas (and Happy New Year, but I will post before that-if Firefox will allow me to get online. Firefox is crap). I will shortly be on my way to stuff my face, so I would like to share my Christmas rules (I do Christmas rules. How anal of me) with you.

First, eat as much as you can of everything you like-as long as it isn't nailed down or on someone else's plate. Feel free to nick it from anyone else's plate-but only if you are bigger than they are and can run faster. Eat. Stuff your face. Calories don't count at Christmas (Rita's rule number One: calories don't count from Christmas Eve to New Year's Day. Once it's January 1st, you are out of luck).

Drink even more (Rule Number 2). Studies (whose? Probably some alcoholic) have shown that women can drink two glasses of wine daily, and two glasses will extend life. Or maybe, it'll feel like life (ever have a hangover?). So it stands to reason that if you don't drink between now and New Year's Eve, you can save up all those glasses and have them all at once...Makes sense to me!! That is two glasses for women, and -is it four?-glasses for men. Boy, am I giving you leeway. And a serious hangover next week.

Rule number 3: everyone lies at Christmas. We lie when we look at a dinner that looks like it will give us food poisoning for the next week. Do we eat it? If we don't want to hurt someone else's feelings. My take on that: tell the cook you are getting over a stomach virus. Eat little bits of vegetables (you would think that nobody could ruin vegetables. If that is what you think, you haven't been to Britain. You name it, they wreck it). Drink wine, unless it is cheap and noxious-then stick to water. Get out of there as quickly as you can and go for a pizza. At least your stomach won't be exploding.

Speaking of lying: women will always ask if their behind looks big in this-usually when "this" is an outfit that is six sizes too small. If you want to live to next Christmas-if you want to live to tomorrow!!- men, you just lie. Say that the color doesn't bring out her eyes, or whatever you need to say-but NEVER tell her that her backend looks the size of the Queen Mary. Unless you can run fast and duck at the same time.

Ghastly presents: thank goodness for charity shops. Wear a mask so you aren't embarrassed to go and give those striped nylon naff socks from Primark. Ewww...or your credibility will be nil.

Oh, and rule number 4: obviously, don't drink and drive. No shit-obvious, yes? Get someone to be sober and the driver, and promise that next year you will be the driver. Of course, you're lying (see rule number 3)- but by next year, who will remember?

So that is it for now. I'm going to have a dinner with friends-and put the noxious workmen behind me. Would I shoot them, really? Nah-too messy, illegal-and pretty much antisocial. I wouldn't mind gelding them, though. I think that would be an improvement. In fact, I would be perfectly happy to sit back, have a glass of good wine, and watch them all spontaneously combust.

So I will post again when Christmas is finished - if nobody has beaten me for nicking their food, of course. I'm not as fast as I used to be-but I am getting really, really good with my stick!!

Finished? Hell, no...

The builders were supposed to be finished by Friday-last Friday. Actually, they told me Wednesday (last Wednesday). Why am I not surprised?



I told you about the Post-its-love those post-its. And on Friday, Derek was on his own. So by 4:15 he'd had enough-and was done for the day, leaving me with piles of kitchen in the living room. I'm getting used to it.



Today the painter is here, and the chippy (carpenter) should be here later. Tony, the site manager, was here about 15 minutes ago, and nobody had shown up. I've given them until 4pm to finish-I've got physio today, and I am not planning on missing that. It's the last one of this year. I get to be assessed. Woe is me! That is because I haven't really walked since the guys showed up on Monday. When I don't walk, even for a day, I see the difference. I did do short ones-but short ones aren't enough.



There is one good thing about the builders taking so long: I get to negotiate piles of cups, plates, all the usual kitchen stuff that is now taking up most of my living room. I have to step over stuff to find other stuff; I have to step over stuff if I want to get to the phone; I get to step over stuff if I want to switch on the television. I call it "rehabilitation": vestibular physiotherapy. And it has been very, very difficult.



The first few days saw me nearly falling over. I had to catch myself, and I thought I had broken some glasses when I tripped (I didn't). By Thursday I noticed that I was finding it easier to step over and around stuff. I thought that was interesting (If I thought that was interesting, I really need to get out more). This all shows that my brain was getting used to stepping around and over-and, although I wasn't pleased about builders dirt all over the place (and in my lungs, too, which I found decidedly underwhelming), I could see the difference in the way I was moving. Shows that my brain is still working (of course it is; I'm not British, am I?).



I had tremendous trouble with breathing, though. I'm trying to get outside as much as I can, just to see if I can clear my lungs out a bit. I cough so much I sound like I've got some terrible disease. But flu is going around, so everyone around me sounds the same. I'm in good company. So far, no flu-but I shouldn't say that, because that is an open invitation, isn't it?



Yesterday I met my friend Daniela at the Royal Festival Hall-it's been many years since I've been to a concert there. It was the Christmas concert, and I really enjoyed it. It was Daniela's first outing since her husband died in June, so it was difficult for her-but we had a good time, and there was an outside food market that was still open when we got out at 5:15. We took our lives (and health) in our hands and bought some vegan food at one of the stalls. We figured it couldn't be too bad-of course, it could have been, but it was delicious, and then she went to get her car and I took the Underground back to the bus, and back home. That was a trip!



In the beginning-now four and a half years ago-I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't walk. I couldn't do anything. For two years, I was effectively crippled. It was scary. Now it is four and a half years later, and all the determination to get better has had results. I've got a long way to go-but I have come a long way, too. I have trouble in the dark, in the rain, in the dark and the rain, in bright sunlight-but now I don't let it stop me. I went out. I took the bus in the dark. I got on the tube -a major, major achievement, because I didn't fall over, although I got a little bit dizzy as I got on and off the train. Walking through the station was tough, because people don't seem to look (or care) where they're going or who they nearly knock over. But I did it. A few bruises-but I'm getting used to it. Probably too used to it.



I haven't come nearly as far as I wanted-but I have come a long way. And it's funny (funny odd, not funny as in ha ha) - I was speaking with one of the admin ladies from my doctor's surgery, and she commented that I am incredibly strong and brave-and powerful. Well, that gave me a bit of a boost. A lot of people - the ones who know what I have been through - say the same thing. Of course, they don't see me on the really bad days-but the bad days aren't as frequent as they were in the beginning. Life isn't great, but it is far better than the alternative. I won't quit. I can't quit. I can't stop now. I need to work harder, and more consistently.



Anger, bitterness, hatred, the sense of injustice-all those things drove me to keep pushing. Now I need reasons that are less negative, and less destructive. I need to find positive reasons to keep going. I'm working on it. It won't happen overnight-but it will happen.

Three days of Hell: the builders have returned!

It's actually five days of hell, not three. I was amazed that they finally arrived on Monday morning-after eight months of constant complaining. You see: when you find the organ grinder, you get results. Eventually.

When Mulalley's manager investigated my complaint-two months ago?- he told me that they would send someone to fix the mess that the workmen had made in March. I really didn't believe that anything would be done. I thought that Mulalley would just ignore the total disaster of a kitchen they left in April. Not so.

About three weeks ago, two men from Mulalley showed up to investigate (again)-and they did not like what they saw. So we made the appointment for Monday (this week). And the two guys couldn't have been nicer. Derek worked all day Monday without a break-and I mean, no break at all. From 8:15 until nearly 4:30 he was banging and crashing and sawing and hammering. I was glad I covered the computer.The level of dust everywhere was amazing. I will be cleaning until Easter. Probably Easter 2016.

I cleared the schedule for all this week-good thing I did-because it seems that the first team made a right mess of this job. Things were done badly, other things were ignored-and, of course, I was unable to open a cabinet because my washing machine was in the way. So poor Derek had some job trying to put right the total disaster that was my kitchen. He worked hard on Monday and Tuesday, and another two people came in on Wednesday to paint, and do some other work, and clean up. I cleaned after they left-and I thought the kitchen looked so much better. I was glad I just made myself a total pain in the ass until I got what I wanted.
And what I wanted was a decent job; why do something if you aren't going to do it right? Oh, yes-this is Britain. I keep forgetting. A half-assed job is far better than no job at all. Allegedly.

Yesterday morning I had a visit from the site manager and a senior Mulalley manager. I assumed they were going to sign off on the job, and that nothing else would need to be done (except the AEG repairman to fix the washing machine that the dummies dropped in March. Twice.) But no, Tony started looking around and was quite upset at the finished work, which he found to be substandard. Hey, what do I know? Everything works, at least they didn't break anything else. But no, Tony came back with John, another senior manager (Mulalley seems to have dozens of senior managers, very few of whom have any idea what they're doing).

Nope. In the afternoon, Tony had his clipboard and John had his wad of Post-its. I love Post-its, by the way (I really need to get out more). Whoever thought up that clever idea must have made millions and millions of dollars. Excellent. I have Post-its everywhere: must do this, must remember to do that, must remember to occasionally glance at the Post-its so I remember what I'm supposed to have done. By November. 2014.

They stopped the list at 31 items that they wanted changed, 31 things that just didn't meet their standards. So today everything that was in the kitchen is still sitting in my living room, I still need to climb over piles of stuff to get anywhere (I call it physiotherapy. Actually, it's a pain in the butt), there is builders' dust everywhere, especially in my lungs. I'm coughing up builders dust. And poor Derek has returned to fix-once again-the mess that was made by someone else. Add to that the fact that he won't be finished today, so we do the whole performance again on Monday. I told Tony that they have to finish by Monday at 4pm.

This will be an interesting weekend, spent climbing over stuff and doing laundry to try to get rid of builders dirt. But when they are finally finished, I will have a working kitchen, and it will look quite good, considering that (according to the senior manager who was here this morning) the budget for the entire kitchen was £300 (roughly five hundred dollars). Huh. No comment. I will do my best not to slam any doors, just in case a cabinet falls off the wall.

I realized this morning that I have spent an inordinate amount of time fighting. I fought for justice after gentamicin poisoning (and we all know how well that turned out, don't we?), I fought hard to regain as much balance as I could, given that I had to rely on my brain making those neural pathways, it takes time, and I have no patience whatsoever. I fought numerous chest infections, a recurrence of pseudomonas, and, of course, let's not forget breast cancer (although I would like to, I have the reminder every time I look in the mirror). I had to fight that, too. I am just a fighter. I'm tired of fighting, quite honestly, and friends (and doctors, and nurses, and physiotherapists) keep telling me how strong and brave I am-and that is probably true, I just refuse to quit. But every once in awhile...I'm tempted to simply give up. Just stop all the medication, and the infusions, and the antibiotics-just quit.

I keep reminding myself that if I quit, all the fighting to survive would have been for nothing. I wouldn't last six months, and all the determination, and the angst, and the fear, and the anger that drove me forward-all that would have been for nothing. So I will do what I do when I get into one of these moods: do my laundry and clean my kitchen. And tomorrow I will feel better, and I will take myself to the museum- and, if I should be hit by a bus or struck by lightning, at least I will  have a clean kitchen!!

Pardon my turkey

I'm suffering from blog withdrawal. I did the hospital/physio/consultants run this week, and by the time I got home I was too tired to do anything but sit. I sat. I won't be doing that in the new year, I can tell you!

I looked around last week for some even-handed news-somewhere-you don't get that here, so I did a search on Friday. I found a story that I think is hilarious; you've probably seen this, but for me it was an eye-opener.  Now-you know that I have a very low opinion of politicians (and most lawyers. I say "most" because I have a friend who is a lawyer). But-it seems that the mayor of Seattle decided to pardon a turkey for Thanksgiving: a TOFU turkey. Every year the incumbent idiot in the White House pardons a turkey-so this year, the Seattle mayor pardoned a Tofurkey. How can you not like someone who pardons a Tofurkey?

I just loved the story. He must be a Republican..with a great sense of humor (I'm not sure one could say that about Obama. And I'm not a Republican, so I have no axe to grind).

So I started thinking about the pardoning of the turkey by the White House. And there are some questions that need to be answered. Inquiring minds need to know! Where did the turkey come from? Does it have siblings? What is its background? How old is the pardoned White House turkey? Is it a permanent pardon? Does it go to a turkey sanctuary? Does it get preferential treatment? After all, it has been pardoned by the president, hasn't it? And, crucially, what happens when the turkey dies (of old age, hopefully)? Does it get a decent burial in an animal cemetery? Is it cremated? Sold to McDonald's?

The French pass off horsemeat as prime beef-everyone knows that (that's enough to turn anyone vegetarian!). So is the pardoned turkey passed off as-something else? Chicken?

Of course, I was thinking about all this as I was getting my infusions on Monday. Sue was banging on about her bloodtests, bone marrow, and everything else she could think of that would bore me rigid. I was captive, with a big needle shoved into the double-stuffed Oreo in my chest, so all I could do was close my eyes-and think of turkeys, and other things. I finally pretended to be asleep, so she bored someone else for four hours. And I do this every three weeks. Oh, well-at least I am still alive, that is a bonus.

I've been really busy this week-mostly waiting. In hospitals and clinics here there is a huge amount of waiting. But I did see Lieske, the chest consultant, on Tuesday. Finally-after over a year, because every time I was due to see her I was an inpatient. And she was really nice. In fact, she said I am in really good shape. So I asked: do you mean "for my age"? I get that a lot: I'm in good shape for my age. Errrr...and she said no, that everything is being controlled and that if I only have to be an inpatient for two admissions a year I am doing very, very well. That made me happy. Everything else will be followed up. I just need to be vigilant.

So I have infusions in a couple of weeks, and that is all until a few appointments in January (and February, and March, and so on). I will have plenty of time to do other things. Finally. And my next investigation by Sean has been moved to March-so that will be very interesting indeed.

I was speaking with a friend yesterday, and she reminded me that I have a life-changing condition that I'm lucky was discovered a decade ago-enough time to stop things from getting a lot worse. She also reminded me that none of this is my fault, but I've had CVID from birth-it's nobody's fault. I'm just really lucky that the doctor in Pennsylvania decided to do a battery of blood tests, and that flagged the condition. Lucky. Really lucky. I do have to sometimes explain to people that I have nothing contagious, so that is a bit of extra work-and I've lost friends because they were afraid they might catch something-but then, they weren't friends in the first place, were they?

My friend also pointed out (she can do that; I've known her for over twenty years) that I suffered life-changing injuries four and a half years ago, and reminded me to look carefully at how far I have progressed since then. It was unjust, she said, and the people responsible should have been held accountable-but they weren't. It's time, she said, to let it go. And keep working. And keep walking. And carry on and let nothing and nobody stop me.

I reflected on that this weekend. She is right. I will never give up. I will keep working, exercising, falling over and getting up again. Why? Because they all said I can't.

The Felon's Balls

Yes, I am going to wish everyone a very Happy Thanksgiving-but first, a true story (yet another one) that will make you laugh. Or cringe. Or both.

Since last time I have done the hospital run nearly every day. Some people have the school run, I have the hospital run. I'm certain that the school run is a lot more fun. And this bloody double-stuffed Oreo in my chest isn't getting any less painful -but try to explain that to doctors...I've given up even talking to doctors. Most of them have been coughing and spluttering - there's flu going around - so I try not to sit downwind. And I still got it anyway. Boo. If everyone would just stop breathing, I would never get sick. Of course, then I would also have nobody to wind up, nobody to be the recipient of my potshots (which, if I may say so, are pretty bloody good!), and I would be absolutely bored to tears. So there goes that idea.

In between going and waiting, and waiting, and waiting...(you get the picture)...I had a Saturday that was free. I decided to go to the West End to buy another adaptor for my laptop, since mine has expired. It is dead as a dodo-so off I went to find a replacement. And there I was, at 9am on Saturday (last week), going full speed ahead down Oxford Street-always a joy. Always packed. But I was early enough to get in and out before the hordes started pushing and shoving-or so I thought. Wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong!!

I got pushed aside by a couple of people coming my way, not looking, not moving, not apologizing-too bad, because I so wanted to tell them where to shove their apology. And then I got hit from behind-I wasn't expecting that, and I very nearly fell over. Well, I've had four and a half years of these morons hitting me, and enough was enough. I exploded. In fact, I went ballistic.

I have to preface this by telling you that I was brought up not to swear. If I said darn, I got told that young ladies don't use bad language. God help me if I said "damn"- I was told off and grounded. I once said shit-and I very nearly got my mouth rinsed out with soapy water. I say very nearly: my mother tried, and I punched her. That was the last time she tried, and for the rest of my childhood I only swore silently. Lovely child-I was just lovely (assertive, though!!).

But here I turned around and I screamed at the woman : "Are you fucking retarded???". She just looked at me-and I went off like an H-bomb. "what the hell, do you think this (I waved the stick) is there for decoration? What kind of an imbecile are you? Is everyone in your family brain-dead, or just you?" She looked at me and said that I had tripped her, and that was all I needed. I said "you came up from behind me, how did I trip you? Do I have eyes in the back of my head? What a fucking asshole you are!!" And I was just warming up.

She then had the nerve to say that I had offended her. And I raised my stick, took it with both hands, pointed it at her, and snapped: " I offended you? I offended you?? You retard, I'll show you how I offend you. Bend over and I will shove this stick so far up your fat ass, it will come out your mouth!" She looked at me, I took two steps forward, and she turned and waddled away as quickly as she could. Like a whale being chased by Captain Ahab and his harpoon.

An old man was standing a few feet away, smoking a cigarette, and laughing all the time I was snapping at this imbecile. And he was laughing so hard I thought he was going to have a seizure. I looked at him and said that I just can't believe these people-and that this has been going on for four years. I've had enough, I said. So he looked at me, and said-"young lady"-well, I liked him already. Needed glasses, but I liked him anyway. Then he proceeded to bang on about how bad this country has become, and even the people who grew up here can't be bothered to have manners, etc, etc...he went on for about ten minutes, and then he stopped and told me that people from other countries aren't the only ones who are carrying knives, cans of stuff designed to blind someone, and I need to be more careful. He warned me: don't talk back to these people, even though I want to swear at them or just tell them off. You never know who is going to beat or stab you-or worse, he said. He told me that I made his day-in fact, I made his week-by having a go, but he then said that he didn't want to read about me in the newspapers. So I thanked him-and I said that I wasn't sorry I did that, in fact, I felt terrific. We said our goodbyes, and I went on my merry way.

I kept his warning in mind when I was nearly home, and outside a supermarket there was a big kerfuffle. Some guy was trying to steal a woman's handbag-that usually doesn't happen near home, it isn't a huge crime area (well, it wasn't, anyway), and he was pulling one way, she was not going to give it up without a fight. And I noticed that she was using a cane-well, I wasn't having that, was I?

Just as I started to go nearer-with the intention of getting stuck in (fool that I am sometimes), she turned around, lifted one leg, and kicked him so hard in the balls that he doubled over. It was glorious. I looked at her and said "now that's what I call a bullseye"- and she smiled and said that he had picked the wrong person, because she spent years learning-kick boxing. Oh, brilliant. Not only was that brilliant, but my local Starbucks is only three shops away, and the uproar caught the attention of two people sitting and having coffee: two police people-who promptly came out and arrested the guy.

Somewhere in North London there is a guy who can now probably audition for the Vienna Boys Choir. And-I wonder how easy it would be for me to learn kickboxing??

Last year I wasn't sure I would make it to Thanksgiving-and it wasn't a very good one, because I was just too sick to enjoy it. In fact, I've had not-so-great (and sometimes not at all) Thanksgivings since 2010. So for me, this is the first good one in some time. I'm sitting down later and making a list of everything I have to be thankful for-after all, what other reason is there to celebrate Thanksgiving (apart from gluttony, of course: masses of food and drink. Hail to that, I'm all for it) except to be grateful?

I'm still here. In spite of the best efforts of some doctors (we all know who they are, don't we?), I am still here. I'm not 100%, but I am working on it. If I had nine lives of a cat, I would probably be on life number 7.
So, even though I get very down at times (especially when I fall over), I know how lucky I am. And it seems that a lot of people are starting to read this blog, so I must be doing some good somewhere. How cool is that!!!

Happy Thanksgiving. Have something strong in my name. I'm having a glass of champagne in yours!!

Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille

I have been busy-I wish I could say it was something other than hospital visits, but-not so. A morning appointment means you sit around all day-and I do mean, all day. That happened several times this past week. If you are going to an appointment with a consultant-well, anyone, really-you must remember to bring lunch. And a big bottle of water. And a book-something around the size of War and Peace should see you through. Maybe.

I did my due diligence. I had a lump removed, and it turned out to be a not-so-good lump. But, the surgeon got the whole thing, so I am clear (ish). I'm on the "watch" list: they are going to watch for symptoms. Of course, they had me on the watch list in 2010, and that didn't work out so well, did it? I need to check for symptoms-I am on so many antibiotics, how would I know a symptom if I saw one? So I get a colonoscopy in six months and we will all see if anything else decides to appear. Colonoscopies-so much fun.  I had a colonoscopy. Get near my back end and I will kick very hard. I honestly don't know how anyone could stand having anal sex. They must be masochists.

It's reached a point where they (surgeons) have taken so many pieces of my body that they will soon be able to make a quilt. King-sized, of course. Perhaps they could do with making a few lamp shades and sending them to BMW (oooooh, that was a funny, not a dig at the Germans. I promise!).

Last week I had to go to the pre-admission clinic at the Royal Free, which is where I will be having my reconstruction (eventually. Remember hurry up and wait?), I went through my medical history, had height and weight measured, the usual boring stuff-and two veins in my arm destroyed before the nurse actually went to get someone who knew what he was doing. By that time, of course, I was horribly bruised. Good thing I am a pacifist. Then I had to go into another room, where a cameraperson was waiting-complete with lights. Very professional. I had to remove my shirt, and the woman photographed my chest from every angle. I couldn't help but laugh: there I was in a soft porn shoot. I told her that if I had known I was going to be photographed, I would have worn Spanx. She just looked at me. Oh, well, it's only a scarred chest. Big deal.

Friday arrived, and I had to go to the day surgery area at yet another hospital. This is due to the fact that, although I initially swore I would never have one, I agreed to have a hemodialysis line inserted. Hemodialysis line: to me it is a PortaCath (something for you anoraks out there to Google. I did-repeatedly-before I agreed to have one).

A PortaCath is a line that goes from a small port (inserted in the chest wall) into the tip of the heart. I don't really like the idea of someone shoving something into my chest-even worse is the fact that the line goes into the main vein into the heart-but it was either that or continue to have what few veins I have in my arms completely brutalized and destroyed. Even John (my nurse) finds it difficult to find a vein to take blood, or to cannulate for my antibody infusions. So I reluctantly agreed to it. And I am still surprised, one week later, I am still alive. More or less.

The hospital transport was too early, I had to wait around for hours (and I didn't bring a book-shame on me, I should know by now!!. The anesthetist made a mess of my vein that held the cannula, and my hand blew up to twice its size. I was nearly screaming, it was so painful. They really screwed up-and I was terrified that if they couldn't even get a line into my hand, what were they going to do with the PortaCath?

Well. I got through it all, and got home 12 hours after I arrived at the hospital-with a very swollen hand and a very sore chest. I was told to keep the wound covered, and not to get it wet for at least five days. That was Friday; on Monday I had to go back in for my antibody replacement-through the port. It hurt. And when I got to the clinic, I had the chance to look at my port in front of the mirror.

Oh, good grief, I couldn't believe it! Matt, my immunologist, said it would be about the size of a small egg-or a button. Most of the "egg", he said, would be inside the chest. And the surgeon who installed the thing said that he was going to use the smallest pediatric port he had. I can imagine if he put one of these in a baby-you would need a hoist just to carry it around. This Porta Cath is about the size of a double-stuffed Oreo. And there is a huge tube that runs from the Oreo up over my collarbone and down into my chest. My goodness, I look sexy. To a blind person, maybe.

I was nearly in tears. All the nurses came over and said how good it looks-and John said that it is really quite small-but it sticks out because I have no fat on top. So couldn't they have put it in my thigh? Plenty of fat there! So I have been grumpy, tired and in pain all week. And this thing in my chest looks like it is an alien ready to jump out (I knew I shouldn't have watched that movie again!).

I'm told that it will look better after a few weeks, and will settle down and be a lot less painful. After awhile, the doctor said, I wouldn't even know it is there. Hah. Of course he would say that: he isn't the one who is walking around with a double-stuffed Oreo in his chest.

The crown of the warrior

After the gentamicin event, my good friend sent me a crown. She called me a warrior (warrior princess, but I think I am a little old to be a princess. Make it a warrior queen instead!). Maureen reminded me that I am tough enough to fight this-and I have been fighting ever since.

Whenever I feel so frustrated and fed up, I look at the crown, which holds pride of place over my bed. And I have to smile. Gentamicin, complete loss of vestibular system, serious chest infections, knee surgery, and, of course, cancer-I have had a lot to fight about. For four years my life has been all about doctors, hospitals and survival. It has been tough at the best of times, excruciating at the worst of times. And I am still fighting.

Of course, those of you who have kept up with this blog know all this, so I am repeating myself. I do that a lot: I repeat myself. This is a sure sign of middle age, along with lines, wrinkles, gray hair, sags everywhere, wobbly bits-and forgetfulness. Oh joy-something to look forward to, isn't it? But when you consider the alternative, it isn't really so bad. I repeat myself, but I don't walk down the street and hold conversations with myself at top volume. That wouldn't be good. People would think I'm from Essex. That would be awful.

This week has been incredibly traumatic. I entertained myself by having my hair cut-and by going to the Unitarian Church for a meditation group on Monday night. That was okay-the people who ran it spoke so softly that nobody at the back of the room could hear them, but we all relaxed in our own way. Happily, nobody was snoring, so that was a bonus.

Tuesday I went along to the hospital. I was shaking so hard, I am surprised that I didn't dislocate something. And I sat in the clinic, shaking, feeling like I wanted to either faint or throw up (whichever would come first). But I controlled myself, because throwing up would be unsociable, and fainting would be painful. So I sat and shook.By the time I was called in to see Mr. Tan's associate, I could barely stand up. It was last year all over again. I was so certain that the cancer had returned, I sat and burst into tears, just as I did last year. Mind you, I cry at commercials, so it was no surprise that I sat and wept (although I was terribly embarrassed). Mr. Choudry said that everyone bursts into tears, so he's used to it. Nice of him to say so...

I don't have breast cancer, although there is something in the abdomen-but that will be removed next week, so I am not to worry. Apart from that - I can live to fight another day. At least. So I held it together, got out, walked down the corridor and into the ladies room. I then sat and sobbed for ten minutes. Maybe longer. I was too busy weeping to take note of the time-but I was in there for a long time. Possibly people were wondering if I fell in.

I managed to get out and I don't know how I was able to get myself together enough to get home. Honestly-I don't think that all the hysterics were only due to this near-crisis. I think that a lot of the pain and anxiety came from last year, when I thought I was going to die. I never really processed the trauma; I was too busy arranging for my knee to be fixed. In retrospect, I might have made a better decision and left the kneecap to this year, rather than last year. Too late to kick myself for that, though (at least I am able to kick myself, which is more than I could do last year at this time!).

I had committed to attending a potluck supper at the church-on Tuesday night after seeing the consultant. I figured I could be distracted by food-and there was a ton of food. There were eleven of us, and I made vegan flapjacks because my new friend Carol is vegan. It was a lot of fun, actually-and the food was good, so we all overate. There was wine, of course, so I was happy.  But it seems that Kat, who knew about the tests, told several people that I had cancer and it was terminal. Really, do you remember playing telephone when we were kids, and by the time the message was relayed by the last person it bore no resemblance to the original message?

This was just like that. Some idiot (called Sean) asked me where the cancer is, and whether it is terminal. How insensitive can one person get? I just looked at him, and someone else changed the subject. I think he knew what a total wanker he was - but I just left it alone, since the guy is huge and I didn't feel like telling him off during a social occasion-or ever, for that matter. Some people have no brains or tact (or feelings) at all.

That was the low point of the evening, but I didn't let it ruin the entire evening. I realized how much I missed going out and socializing. And I decided to go fully macrobiotic: no meat, no dairy, no food with chemicals in it, no animal products at all. I don't eat fish, so that is no problem-but I will miss cheese!

Years ago I had a friend who was diagnosed with spinal cancer, and was told to wrap up his affairs, since there was nothing more to be done. The guy had small children-and he started reading about macrobiotics, and told me that he was going to follow a strictly macrobiotic diet. He didn't really have anything to lose, did he? I was in university, he was a graduate student, and we lost touch for a few years. But - he is still alive and well, kept to his macrobiotic diet, living in Europe with his family-thirty years later he is absolutely fine. So much for medical advice: sometimes it is just plain wrong.

I wonder how long it will be before I get sick of eating rice? How many ways can you eat rice? Well, you have stayed with me this long, so I will keep you updated on the "thousand ways to eat rice and veggies" diet. As you know, I am far too obstinate to give up. The fat lady hasn't sung yet-in fact, she is nowhere to be found. And if the good do die young, I will be around 100 and still hitting people with my stick.

And-the verdict comes on Tuesday...

I get all the results of the tests on Tuesday afternoon. I forgot (conveniently) to tell you that...but it's Tuesday.

I didn't think I would be worried or upset-but I remember last year, when I had a bad feeling and it turned out to be breast cancer. I have a bad feeling. Hopefully I am just being an alarmist. Hopefully.

I have been thinking a lot about what I will do on Tuesday after the verdict is in. Actually-I don't know. At the moment I am doing laundry and cleaning my kitchen. Can you imagine keeling over from cancer and doing it thinking-Oh my God, I'm leaving a dirty kitchen!!

I know, these are really weird thoughts to have at the moment. I can, of course, put it all down to being an alien (and an alien with voting rights, how cool is that??). But I am not going to consider what I am going to do until I see Mr. Tan and get the verdict.

Anyone remember the Edgar Allen Poe story about the Pit and the Pendulum? I feel like there is an axe swinging over my head, and I won't know which way it will go until Tuesday afternoon. That is not a great feeling to have-something even Kettle Chips and Starbucks can't help (or a clean kitchen, for that matter).

I know one thing: I will be able to handle whatever comes my way. After gentamicin, vestibular destruction, breast cancer, patella surgery, hospital stays because of severe chest infections-well, I guess I am strong enough to deal with whatever comes next.

I'll let you know on Tuesday.

It's good to be an alien

Yes, that's right: I'm an alien. Not only that, I am a registered alien. Whether that makes much of a difference-who knows? For all the years I have lived here-and I lived here longer than I lived in my own country-I have been an alien. I worked, paid taxes, got sick, got well, got married (must have been nuts), got divorced (must have wised up), and the only thing I have never been able to do-was vote. Until now. Meh.

I have done all the hospital stuff since last time I posted: I've been poked, prodded, blood letted, had my scan so I've also been irradiated up the wazoo-and the general pronouncement (by everyone except the oncologist) is that I am in really good shape-for my age. It's the "for your age" that I could happily do without. For my age-you would think I was a car. But never mind, I am doing really well-for my age. God isn't even my age. Well, that does really irk me. But it certainly beats the alternative.

In the middle of all this palaver, it was my birthday. Did I celebrate? Is the Pope Catholic? My friends called me from the US, I received birthday cards and emails (love those calls, emails, cards-what a lift that gave me), and I celebrated with friends here. And celebrated. And celebrated. Not everyone could make it on Monday, so I celebrated again on Wednesday. My head still hurts. But, when I consider that last year I wasn't sure if I would even live to my birthday, it's a year down the line-and I am beginning to see what gratitude really is. Tomorrow I could walk out of the house and get struck by lightning. So maybe it's a good idea to really start living. I thought about that last year-but some people take a long time before they get it.

Now-in the middle of the muddle, I received a letter from the government. When I see a brown window envelope, I know it's from the government. So-I wondered what they wanted. And what they wanted was for me to vote. I laughed so hard I got a cramp in my side and nearly fell off the chair (nothing new there; I fall over all the time).

A few weeks ago I received a letter asking me to register to vote. Of course, I did what I always do with this drivel: I threw it away. Now, last week, I received another letter, telling me that I am registered to vote and if I fail to vote (in the General Election in the spring), I could be jailed and fined a thousand pounds. Eeek. This current government isn't worth a thousand pounds.

So, when I stopped laughing, I rang the number on the letter-a premium number, of course-these guys will stick you with any kind of bill if they can get away with it. So I explained that I am an alien (didn't that go over really well!!). I said I hold an American passport, and the information in my AMERICAN passport enables me to stay and live here forever. Believe me when I say it feels like forever. In fact, some days it feels like a life sentence.

The woman requested my national insurance number-like our social security number-and then after a few moments she got back on the phone and told me that I can, indeed, vote in both countries (I'm never going to give up the right to vote for President, no matter how mediocre and how big a jerk he is), and I am, therefore, expected to do my civic duty and vote for the next Prime Minister. I said-you've got to be joking, am I going to vote for one of the Chuckle Brothers, or worse, one of the Three Stooges? She laughed-and said, yes, everyone needs to vote. So I took her name and we thanked each other, and I got off the phone and thought-no way in Hell and I going to cast my vote for any of these idiots. I already voted for the chief idiot in America, I won't repeat the process. Honestly-as an aside-can you imagine Sarah Palin in the White House? Oh, please-the moron would probably hit the button and start World War III because she thought it was the television remote.

So there you are: I am an alien with voting rights. Go figure. I wonder if there is a place where I can write in my candidate...I'd write in Mickey Mouse. Cameron is such a wanker, a rhesus monkey could do his job better than he can. A rhesus monkey would probably save the NHS. And monkeys are cute. You certainly can't say that about politicians, can you?

Just thinking about voting makes me smile. Now I need to figure out a way to get out of it.

Let's kick some butt

I returned from Great Hucklow feeling really depressed-and I was depressed for two and a half weeks. I had a real pity party: feeling sorry for myself, wondering how on earth I ended up in the position of having (suddenly) such rotten health, a good friend who turned out to be no friend at all (we don't speak to each other now-and that is fine, who needs someone like that?). I had the hospital run nearly every day: the immunologist, the neurologist, the gastroenterologist-and Mr. Tan, the oncologist, who prodded under my arm to see if there is a mass. Not fun.

That was Monday; Tan has ordered a body scan, which I will have on Thursday. Ten days after that I get to see Tan and get the results. Oh, Joy.

I decided to give a name to feeling so down. I call it the Black Dog Blues. Why not give it a name? I think I started to feel a bit better on Monday, since I not only gave my pissy mood a name, but I also decided that I was going to feel more cheerful. Actually, I was boring myself rigid-so I told myself off, reminded myself that life doesn't wait for anyone, and get over it. And, with that, I kicked the black dog's butt out the door.

So now I am feeling better, back to being my irascible self (always allowed when one reaches middle age). And-I will not worry (as if) about the scan or the results. Simple: either I survive or I don't. Either I start living as much as possible now-or I don't.

It's interesting (to me, anyway) that I felt anger, hatred and bitterness toward the people who caused the gentamicin damage-and to those who refused responsibility (so I wasn't compensated-and if I lived in the USA, that would be very different), and those really seriously negative feelings drove me forward. I don't know that I would have come this far-although it has been four long, hard years-if I hadn't been pushed by anger. It turned out to be constructive-at least until last year, when I got the extra blow of being diagnosed with cancer. Personally, I think it is all interrelated.

So now, I just keep plodding along. Tomorrow I see a physiotherapist who will give me extra vestibular exercises-and my balance and vision have been really awful since the weather started to change. But I don't give up. I never give up. There is no sign of a singing fat lady.There is, however, a bag of Kettle Chips with my name on it, and I can hear it calling me ("eat me, eat me"). Now I wish I'd bought stock in the company...

The organ grinder and the monkey

It seems like so much longer since I returned from Great Hucklow-so long I finally got the name right. But I came back feeling very low-I was tired, down, in a very pissy mood, and everything went wrong in these two weeks. So I stayed away from the computer, since I know from recent experience that nobody should write anything to anyone when in a very bad (or depressed) mood.

Everything really did go wrong: the plumber didn't show up (twice), so I still have a leak in the kitchen. Someone else didn't show up to fix a light switch-so if there is a fire, I hope it happens when I am absent! And on and on it went, to the point where I finally imploded. I sat on the bed, stuck my face in the pillow, and screamed and cried, and punched the pillow a few times. I wanted to do this all silently, just in case the neighbors thought I was being murdered. Then after about ten minutes, I felt better, and I did what any self-respecting woman would do under the circumstances: I went shopping.

I thought about buying a new stereo-but the one I want is so expensive, I wouldn't be able to take a trip home in the new year. So that was out. Instead-I bought a new hat. Did I need one? No. But so what? I've been through one ordeal after another-for four years, and there is no sign of it stopping-so I decided to buy a really lovely burgundy trilby. Expensive, yes-but much less than a new stereo system! And I came back, feeling much happier than I had felt in the last two weeks, and paraded in front of the mirror, deciding that I look really terrific. Why not? I recommend buying something when you feel really depressed for a long time-not a car, or a house (unless you are very rich, in which case you can buy me one, too)-but a hat? Great.

I had a very bad time, with the black dog biting big chunks out of my behind and refusing to leave-for longer than usual. But I have been so stoical since the gentamicin experience, and the cancer experience-cracks were bound to show in my facade of being happy and cheerful and joking. I have never felt sorry for myself for very long, or moaned to anyone (other than close friends) for very long, so this really long, black mood took me by surprise. And it was bound to happen sooner or later.

But some good things happened in these two weeks, too. I remember when I got my first job, and my granny gave me some good advice: if you want to complain to anyone, don't talk to the monkey. Talk to the organ grinder. Well-I had to laugh, but it is so true: find the person in charge, the person with the power (the organ grinder), and don't give up on what you want (or think you deserve) until you either get it or are given a valid reason why you can't have it. I'm just as guilty of complaining to all and sundry as anyone else, I hasten to add-another piece of good advice I ignored for too many years. Until two weeks ago.

I rang Mullaley's about the total mess their people made of my kitchen (if you are in the UK, never have Mullaley do any work for you-unless you want to stress yourself into a heart attack or a brain hemorrhage), and rang my landlord. I did both, repeatedly; I made a pain of myself until I got some results. I was not going to give up. And last week I had a visit from two very large men-I say "very large" because my kitchen is very small, and they kept bumping into each other. It was almost very entertaining.

One was called Dave, and he was the landlord's representative; the other, John, was the surveyor from the company that gave the contract to Mullaley. They spent forty minutes crashing into each other, taking photographs, saying what a terrible job had been done, and then asked me if I would be happy if they put everything right-including the washing machine, which the geniuses had broken by dropping it twice (and right in front of me, too). Yes, I said, I thought that would be very fair.

Someone from Mullaley (called Danny Murphy) will be here on Friday-along with John, the surveyor-and will organize everything to be fixed. And there is a lot to be fixed. But John assured me that it will all be done, and in the next few weeks, so we will see if they will all keep their word. Organ grinder. Only complain to someone who is in charge and can make decisions, and just keep at it until they get so fed up with you that they give you what you want just to get rid of you. Huh. Middle age can be a blessing.

But-there is also some not-so-good news this week, too. I've been having some pain for over a week-and I put it down to middle age: things go south, you get more lines and wrinkles, more grey hair (mine couldn't be any more grey-it's been grey since I was twenty), and when you move you start to creak in places that never used to creak. In fact, some days I creak so much that I think I seem like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz-except that he was taller and a better dancer.

I finally decided to call Mr. Tan's office (the oncologist who performed the mastectomy last year). I told his secretary that I was having pain under my right arm, and that it wouldn't go away-I said it is probably nothing, but I said that last April, too, and look where that landed me! The next thing I knew I was called and told that I need to go back to see Mr. Tan this afternoon-because cancer can come back. And that was the reason he didn't do any reconstruction last year. The cancer might have returned-and gone into the lymph nodes. I will know more when I see him a bit later. That is a bit of a blow.

Whatever happens, I will deal with it. I handled the total destruction of my balance system four years ago, when I was finally told that I would never be completely better (I'm not completely better, but I'm not giving up, either). I handled breast cancer, knee surgery, hospital admissions for serious chest infections-I handled everything, on my own-the only real support came from the people who are closest to me, and they are over the Pond. Everyone who called themselves my "friend" in this country disappeared. I couldn't stand up without falling over after the gentamicin, so I couldn't go out and party-so that was that. And last year-well, perhaps people thought that cancer is contagious. You exhale, they inhale, and - oops! Who knows? Cancer frightens people. It scared the hell out of me, I can tell you!

I'm a bit nervous about my consultation with Mr. Tan this afternoon-but whatever it is, I will deal with it. These last four years have taught me how to be very, very strong. And one thing I do know for certain: if I can't take my new hat and my Kettle Chips with me, I'm not going anywhere.

Lies, Cheating and Deceit

Right, then: lies,cheating, deceit, broken promises...that's politics for you! And that was my weekend-part of it, anyway.

I couldn't sleep on Thursday night. I've been an insomniac for years, and have never found a cure that didn't involve sleeping pills, which I refuse to take (I take enough pills already). So I took Valerian, which is herbal, supposed to help induce sleep, and I know several people who swear by it. Valerian, I discovered, keeps me awake. Go figure! So I was walking around and cleaning the bathroom at 2am. Now-I'm not an obsessive cleaner, I promise-I just couldn't think of anything else to do at that hour. Plus, my kitchen needed cleaning...

At 4am I switched on the news, and discovered that Scotland had voted against the referendum. It was close, but the no vote had the majority. So ends the possibility of independence for Scotland-and so began the anger, recriminations, accusations. It was reminiscent of American politics. I must admit that, as shocked as I was by the animosity and accusations of both camps, I was thoroughly enjoying it all (secretly, of course). We aren't the only ones who do a lot of mud slinging at voting time..thank goodness.

On Friday morning I trekked across London to Victoria Station to meet two Unitarians and go to a Unitarian conference in the Peak District. The countryside is supposed to be beautiful: rolling hills, lots of green, good walking country. So I met up with Kat, who is Scottish and was very upset at the final verdict, and was extremely vocal about it. I've been in this country long enough to understand her accent (heavy Scots accent, very pretty, I think-when I can understand what she is saying, and that is only part of the time).

It was a very long journey to a place I still call "Great Something-or-other"- because it took me a couple of days to get it right. You take a three and a half hour coach trip to Sheffield and turn left. Then you take a bus for another hour and end up in Great Something-or-other. Actually, it is Great Hucklow, but Great Something or other sounds more fun. Hucklow has no shops, no post office-just a pub (every village has at least one pub) and a small conference center. And it rained. And rained. And rained. Did I mention that it rained?

I met some very nice people there, and we talked a lot about the Scottish referendum. Kat's family - and a huge number of other Scots, too - have maintained that there was a lot of cheating and intimidation prior to the vote. Cameron, who is a dirtbag and a slimy crook anyway-went over to Scotland and told people that the banks would close and that they would lose their pensions. Apparently a lot of "no" voters were very, very threatening. And the count was fixed (sounds like Bush in Florida, doesn't it?). Kat was really angry. And the population over in Scotland is very split, with a great deal of antagonism on both sides. This rift will take some time to heal.

It took us five hours to get back to Victoria on Sunday night-the journey should have taken only three and a half hours, but traffic and roadworks delayed us really badly. So I ended up getting to bed well after midnight. Still recovering now...and on my way to Stanmore to see Mr. Skinner, who is going to do keyhole surgery on  my other leg next week. I am so very happy that I only have two legs! As long as I don't catapult myself down a flight of concrete steps and land knees first, I should be good to go for a few years. Hopefully.

I haven't checked my emails-so I don't know if my friend has issued an apology about the vicious and threatening email she wrote last week. But I am still kicking myself for feeling that I had to justify my actions. I don't have to justify myself to anyone; I haven't done anything wrong. Even writing it all down in this blog-well, was I justifying myself or just clarifying my position? Hmmm... have to think about that one.

I do know one thing: I will never write a nasty email to a friend (unless I really want to end the friendship) without thinking carefully first, and without reading what I've written a few times before I hit the send button. Once you hit the send button, you can't ever take back what you've written. And actions have consequences.

Will I continue to send potshots and missles across the bow? Oh, hell, yes-after all the years I've lived here, it's become a hobby. Somebody has to tell the truth, after all...(I'll probably be arrested and deported, but at least I will have had some fun).

In a tailspin...with friends like this, who needs enemies?

I opened an email from someone who calls me her "best friend"- and I was so unprepared for such a vicious and poisonous email that it threw me into a tailspin. I still don't know why she wrote what she wrote, but it made me depressed and upset all week. I really gave it a lot more time and energy than it deserved. But she is supposed to be a friend. Huh. Some friend.

When I reported on the breaking and entering-which wasn't really breaking and entering, but was, to the four of us, hilarious- I received an irate email from this same "friend", asking me if I was insane to do this and then put it online for everyone to see. She also wrote that she was bothered that I was supposed to be writing this about recovery from gentamicin, and it was turning into something else entirely.

So I smoothed things over, and told her not to worry, that I wasn't insane, or stupid, and that it was not a big deal-and that the blog was evolving, just as I was also evolving. There was never a comment about it, but I was bothered at her attitude. I tried to pass it off as concern-until I read her abusive email on Sunday.

She felt it necessary to dredge up the breaking and entering again-and also demanded to know why I was badmouthing this country, since this country has done so much for me, and "given" me this, that and the other. She was so vicious, so poisonous, I was so upset-because this was supposed to be a very close friend of many years. And yet she was on the attack. So I had to walk away from the computer for an hour, or I would have fired one back that was just as nasty, and that would have been the end of a long friendship. It still might be the end. She also went on to say that she was going to re-evaluate our friendship. Say what?

So I wrote back, and I gave what I believe was a tactful reply-I said (diplomatically) that she was wrong, I told her why, and I said that if she wanted to no longer be friends I thought she should let me know. And what did I get back the next day? An email saying that "we are good". There was no acknowledgment of what I had written-and no apology. And both would, to me, have been appropriate. Instead I felt that the reply was abrupt and condescending. So I will tell you what I told her, just in case anyone has the same feelings (I don't know why you would, but I want to discuss this anyway).

First, the "breaking and entering"-because it's shorter to write about...the person who whacked the door was the owner of the property, and the only person who was paying the mortgage-this meant that it was her right to get the door open. Nothing except the lock (which was pretty old anyway) was broken; no walls were damaged, no glass broken, no pets injured-so, technically, it wasn't breaking and entering, since we did nothing illegal. I think of it as a bit of DIY. We did some redecorating. If that toad didn't want anyone to see his paperwork, he should have put it somewhere else. Enough said. So there goes any reason for that first vicious email-which I chose to ignore in the end, because I thought that my friend was worried. That isn't any excuse for being nasty and poisonous, though-and Sunday's email was ten times worse.

From the time I got off the plane, looked around and decided to stay and work (falling in lust the first week I was here was probably the reason I stayed anyway), I paid taxes. I paid very heavy taxes. Those of us who work subsidize those who don't work. Those of us who pay into the NHS (yes, there is a contribution that comes out of our paycheck) are subsidizing those who don't pay anything into the system. It's called being "on the dole"-unemployed, or on benefits, or whatever. I worked. I paid. I never took a penny from anyone, not even my ex when I left him (more fool me for that mistake!). And I paid for private medical coverage, because I didn't want to wait hours, weeks, months to see a doctor if I needed one. So I didn't live off the NHS either.

This country "gave" me precisely nothing. If the three medical morons hadn't crippled me, ruined my life ans I knew (and know) it, and very nearly killed me, I would never have been offered this apartment I'm renting now. I'm renting. I'm paying a hefty rent, and all the other expenses, and nobody has "given" me anything. In fact, when I was called just two months after the gentamicin and told I needed to look at this place and give an answer immediately, my heart sank. It was filled with mouse droppings-obviously an infestation. There was a concrete floor, holes in walls, no kitchen except for two cupboards and a sink.That was it. Nobody would clean it up, so I had to take a dustpan and brush to get as much of the mouse droppings up as I could. I had to pack and unpack; I had to buy carpets, curtains, all the kitchen appliances, and pay a carpenter to make me shelves, since there were empty walls in the kitchen. I moved into a slum, and I had to do the best I could to make it liveable. So no, nothing was free. Nothing was given. I paid for everything, and I always have done. That accusation made me feel sick.

So that deals with those two issues. And, as far as I am concerned, perhaps I should be the one who is "re-evaluating" our friendship. That email was nasty, poisonous, and there was absolutely no excuse for it-and no excuse for not coming back and apologizing. My "friend" needs to put it right-unless, of course, she really wants to end the friendship. This is someone I have known for a very long time, and I trusted. Huh..

Am I still going to throw potshots at the Brits? Hell, yes! For one thing, it's fun, and they have been lobbing grenades in the direction of my country and my people-for the twenty years I've lived here. So I'm firing missiles back, with absolute impunity. If they are going to dish out the abuse, they should man up and be able to take it, too. I'm living in a country in which a large percentage (or, it seems like a large percentage) like our money but find us one step below a bad case of genital herpes (and, no, I have never had genital herpes, but the analogy sounds pretty interesting, don't you think?).

I'm not the only one lobbing grenades over here, either. Today Scotland goes to the polls to vote for independence. It's a very close call, and I personally think that the "yes" team will lose to the "no" team. I have a feeling that more voters will vote to stay in the union-not because they love the Brits, but because they are concerned about how independence will affect them financially. I can understand that - but England just screws everyone over. They did it with strip mining in Wales (so the Welsh hate them), they did it in Ireland, in India, in Hong Kong...and, of course, in Scotland.

I would love to be wrong. I would love to see the Scots become independent of that pinhead Cameron and independent of Brussels (why we don't leave the European Union is a mystery). I think that the Scots would do better if they could finally rule themselves-but I'm not Scottish and I don't live in Scotland, so all this palaver really isn't my business. But what a cosmic sized kick in the ass for the English if the Scots vote for independence! It really would serve them right for mistreating these people for so long. And I'm not the only person who thinks that, either.

I have to say that recovery and healing are affected by everything around me: people, weather, environment, everything. As I fight for both survival and for some balance to be restored, I am a lot stronger than I was four years ago. Did I give up? No, I did not, even though there were setbacks (like cancer) and times when I was so frustrated I just wanted to quit. But I fight. I fight, and I fight back, and the more setbacks and crap I go through, the more determined I am to recover as much as I can, and live as normal a life as I can. So I will continue to lob grenades and missiles (figuratively speaking, of course), and to the person who derides me, I say: oh, well, TFB. Or-WTF.

What else can I say, except: Fire in the hole!

Tempering the temper

It was going to happen sooner or later: I inadvertently fell into a black hole. The black hole was very small in circumference, but very malevolent in depth. And what did I find there? If you guessed a black dog, you are absolutely correct. It was very brutal.

It has only been a little over two weeks since I was pardoned from my hospital incarceration (it really was a prison-and the food was far from haute cuisine, I can tell you). It has taken me this long to recover; clearly, I don't bounce back as quickly as I did when I was younger. I found that really, really depressing.

I spent last weekend weeping. That was it: I cried all weekend. I had a tremendous pity party. Did I have the Jack Daniel's? No...I really only drink alcohol when I am out with other people. I don't even have wine at home, although it is supposed to be really good for you. I will never make a good alcoholic: more than two drinks and I am not on the floor, I am under it. I wouldn't be a very good drug addict either: by the time I could find a working vein anyone else in the room would have passed out from sheer boredom.

I understand depression. I've been depressed at various times since the gentamicin disaster...and afraid, so I understand fear, too. I try to compensate for both by making jokes-some funny, some-terrible. But I still try to find humor in just about everything, because that has been my coping mechanism all my life. Believe me when I say that there were not a lot of funny times in my life. So I used jokes to cope.

What I find interesting is that two of my favorite comedians (Robin Williams and Joan Rivers) also used humor to cope with times that were pretty dire. I was really angry when Williams committed suicide. How dare he deal with depression by offing himself!! But I can understand how it can all just be too much to handle.

So I got depressed, because this was my second admission this year-and for pseudomonas, too-and I was very afraid that the antibiotics wouldn't sort it all out. I still don't know if they did the job or not, because I had to go for my infusions last week and it took five tries to locate a vein that was working. And-nobody could find a vein to give up some blood for the bloodwork I needed. I was there six and a half hours-but I did wait until I got home to cry. It just hit me very, very hard. Well-boo hoo.

Sometimes I try to think about all the things I should be grateful for-and when I am being bitten in the backside by the black dog, gratitude is not exactly the first thing I think about. People who have absolutely no understanding of what I have been through are the ones who say, oh, be grateful. That seems to me to be a little condescending, you know? Don't tell me to be grateful. Tell me to cry, swear at things, boo hoo, and all that-but not to stay in the black hole with the black dog for any longer than I have to.

So I took two weeks to recover - both physically and mentally, I think - and now I am back in business. I ate a lot of junk food, cried, didn't clean my kitchen (well, then you know I was really depressed!), watched a lot of television...my balance and vision went out the window, and that was the toughest part of the past few weeks, because I know that everything goes south when I am on antibiotics. But even though I was falling over (again), and I couldn't see very well (again), I just decided that things would get better eventually. I kept walking and hoped that nobody would knock me in front of a moving vehicle.

I am fighting my way back. I always do. Sometimes it takes longer than others, but I still fight. And clean. And eat masses of Kettle Chips.

The other day some idiot walked past me and turned around and snapped that it must be nice, waving my stick around and tripping people. So I shot back, at least I am not ugly, fat and braindead like her. She gave me a dirty look and waddled away as quickly as she could. That was so unnecessary...and I should have kept my mouth shut, because you just never know when some maniac is going to turn back around and stab you (happens all the time in London. Everyone seems to have a weapon. And a temper that makes mine look mild). But she did have a face that looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, and a backside the size of a double-decker bus...I very nearly told her to f*** off, but that would have been overkill.

I'm still having trouble with remembering how many people here are rude, inconsiderate, nasty-and just completely braindead. I need to pity them, not swear back at them. Personally I would like to punch some of them in the face. And I've never been violent! I need to work on my temper, because one day I will say something and I will deeply regret it. Somebody remind me!

Speaking of being tied up...what could possibly go wrong???

This is becoming an ongoing joke on this blog: nope. Still not dead. And nobody is more surprised than I am, given my less than glorious time in the Royal London. If I had started with nine lives, I think that six of them are gone. I really don't want to trust doctors with the last three-so I'd better stay healthy this time!

I went into the immunology clinic on Wednesday, the 13th-and I felt like a lemon, sitting there for four and a half hours while there was a lot of discussion about whether to admit me or give me even more oral antibiotics than I take already. So-they finally decided to admit me, but there were no beds. I came home and unpacked, and I really felt like I had a stay of execution.

That didn't last long; on Thursday I got a call from my nurse (John), who told me to get there as soon as I could. He said he would cannulate me, but I needed to be there early. Well-I should know better by now, having dealt with these people for so many years! I packed a case (again)-all the medicines, the usual toiletries, some clothes, and, of course, makeup. Makeup-must get my priorities right, mustn't I? I didn't wear it for the two weeks I was incarcerated in the Royal London, but I brought it anyway. By the time I finished packing (also bringing books, since there is no wi-fi on the ward), I felt like a Sherpa. Luckily the minicab driver helped me part of the way.

It was the usual: fourteen days of very strong intravenous antibiotics. Nasty. My balance (such as it is) went out the window, and my eyes just wouldn't focus. But-the two things that were really depressing (apart from the fact that I could barely get out of bed, so I wasn't doing anything about going for my usual walks) were the care and the food.

The food is worse with every admission. There were days when they ran out of food-I don't know how that could happen, but it did. One day I didn't eat at all. Someone brought in a tray with a lone baked potato on a plate, saying that there was nothing else. And the potato was so hard I could have thrown it and broken a window-or given someone a concussion. As for the rest of the food-what they served was a mystery. Nothing was recognizeable. I got something on a plate that was truly mystery meat: it looked suspiciously like something my dog would have deposited in the road after eating something that really disagreed with him. I was waiting for it to start moving. In fact, I think it might have been moving...if it had jumped up and run around the plate, I would have asked to be sedated.

The funniest food story happened one morning, when the breakfast trolley was parked almost outside my door. This trolley had things like corn flakes, and other cold cereals, as well as hot water for instant coffee and tea. I was smart enough to bring my own teabags, since everyone on the ward who has been there before (staff included) knows that the teabags are so cheap and nasty, they are probably filled with floor scrapings and wood chips. So forget the tea. And as for the coffee: if I don't make it myself, or go to Starbucks, I won't drink it. The English make coffee that could double as paint stripper. Perhaps it really is paint stripper.

I came out of the room on this particular morning to go get some hot water and make myself a decent cup of tea-and I looked at the breakfast trolley and noticed something that looked like a bowl of pig swill mixed with vomit. Really, it looked like someone had eaten it first (so did all their food, by the way).

I looked, I made a face, and the nurse who was standing there filling bowls with corn flakes laughed, and pointed out that other wards make this (pulverized oatmeal, probably great for people who have no teeth. Or tastebuds.) with water, but on our ward (he said) the nurses make it with milk. What is it? I asked. Ready Brek, he replied. I said it looks like a bowl of vomit, and he started telling me again how they make it with milk, so the patients should be grateful. I then said that I don't care if they make it with Jack Daniel's-it still looks like vomit. I then scarpered into my room so nobody could hurl abuse. It really was funny. One nurse I knew quite well came in and said she would never look at Ready Brek in the same way again. And she said she doesn't eat it anyway. So we both had a laugh-one of the few I had in two weeks.

But the care-I do need to mention that, because we Americans think the National Health Service is so brilliant, we want socialized medicine in the USA. There is a huge "BUT" to that idea. In the UK the population is somewhere around 55 or 60 million (depending on which source you use). So you would think the NHS works here, because at home we have fifty states and a lot more people. Think again. Would it work in the USA? It doesn't even work here, so - the jury is definitely out on socialized medicine over there.

The NHS is a great idea- and when it works (like the speed with which I had cancer surgery last year) it works well. When it doesn't work-well, I think back four years to gentamicin, and that is a classic case of incompetence and the system letting me down. And I am not alone; there are people who have died, or been confined to a wheelchair, or blinded, just because of negligence and incompetence-and waiting for surgery to be available. I kid you not-and in the USA you can sue, and collect; here, as we know, nobody who is responsible for the cock-ups will admit responsibility. It's very sad; the system is being drained by idiots who are so busy paying themselves megabucks (or pounds) that there isn't enough to pay nurses and doctors a decent wage.

I know some of the nurses on the ward since I was there four years ago. The hospital - in its wisdom - downgraded experienced nurses from a band 6 to a band 5-I don't know how much of a drop this is financially, and I thought that the nurse who told me this would tell me about the money -if he wanted to, and he didn't, so I didn't think it was my business to ask. But the nurses who are left do 13 hour shifts-13 hour shifts!! And one I know since she was training (Louise) did eight  13 hour shifts in a row-plus another three so she could make enough money to pay her expenses. That is insane: 11 days in a row? No wonder the nurses reach the point of making a lot of mistakes-and I do mean a lot. They get medications and infusions wrong, they get so much wrong-they are totally worn out. I feel for them-but I still need infusions to be right, so I might have been a little short with some of the agency nurses who treated me.

I had agency nurses - because there were days when the ward nurses were on their own, one nurse to 11 rooms-and two agency nurses didn't even know how to take blood pressure, let alone do an infusion. One tried to stick a needle down the cannula-I pulled my arm away and told her to get me a nurse who knows what they are doing. Idiot-must have been a 300-pounder from Essex.

Last Thursday my last infusion was at 6am-the cannula came out at 7am, and I was packed and ready to leave by 7:15 am. Not that I was ready to sprint out the door-but I kept bothering the nurses to get someone from the immunology team to sign off on me. This should have happened the night before-but it didn't, so I made a pain of myself or I would have had to wait until 4 or 5pm. They finally let me out at 11:15-I raced off the ward. I probably would have knocked over anyone in my path, that is how desperate I was to leave!I'd been -well, not tied up, more like tubed up, arm veins at the ready (to be demolished), and I couldn't wait to get home.

I went into the London with the attitude of what could possibly go wrong? Answer: everything. Only this time I was blunt and on the case, and I was clearly not someone to be messed with.  I realized that I didn't really care, as long as people did their jobs (for better or worse) and didn't kill me this time. So that worked.

It has taken me a week to recover from the hospital stay and the antibiotics-they were really strong, it was like putting bleach into my veins. I should have the cleanest veins in London now...And I did get out of bed to go to see the Matisse exhibition at the Tate on Saturday. It was packed, I was pushed around by the sheer volume of people (not looking where they were going), and I got back and had to rest for the remainded of the weekend-actually, for the next week or so. But I went anyway. Nuts, or what? The exhibition was great, so, nuts or not, I am glad I pushed myself to go. Now I need to start pushing myself harder to walk and see better, and ignore the fact that Dr. Dimples will be discharging me from neurology in two weeks. He told me last year that he would do that, since-he said-if I haven't made more progress by this year, I will have gone as far as I can go. Well-that is like waving a red flag at a bull, isn't it? A challenge if there ever was one.

That brings you up to date. This afternoon I will see the plastic surgeon about reconstruction. I haven't made up my mind yet- I need to have all the facts first. I have said probably not all this time-so if I decide to go ahead, it will be for myself, not for anyone else. Still hovering on the fence. You'll know when I know.

So now I am off to make a salad: real food, tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce-you name it, I've been doing that since I got off the ward. Salad. A shot or two of Jack Daniel's-and, of course, a large bag of Kettle Chips!
Life is good.

Sex, politics, money and religion

I put sex first-that will grab your attention.

I was always taught not to discuss any of the above topics, because it will only lead to fights. Everyone thinks differently. Well...I've already talked about politics (politicians are the world's bottom-feeders-they come out of the womb lying, and they've been lying ever since). Money: it would be so lovely to have some! Religion? I'm allergic to religion and churches. I used to sing in the Presbyterian Church choir when I was growing up, and that was enough religion to put me off forever.

Every time I walk past a church I break out in hives. Even the Unitarian Church-I walk through the door and I start to itch. What a great allergy to have (in my opinion, of course).

As for sex, it's been so long since I had any, I forgot who gets tied up.

So there you are, the world's biggest contentious topics, all sorted out very nicely.

All weekend I was very down, since it was exactly four years (on Saturday) that I ended up unconscious (and nearly died), thanks to the incompetent doctors. But that is a story you have already heard-several times, probably. I got through it, and when I posted l was trying to make light of it. However-there isn't really any way to make light of some idiots destroying my life. But that doesn't stop me from trying.

Just when I thought I was going to be able to handle things better, on Monday afternoon John (my nurse) called me. I was already not in a happy place, and then he informed me that the sputum sample I left two weeks ago (nice gift for John: spitting into a cup so he could send it to the lab to be analyzed) showed - pseudomonas. Again. Just like four years ago. I know that once the bug is present, it never goes away. But all the antibiotics I take every day should-allegedly-keep the numbers way down. Only this time they didn't.

So where am I? I'm at home, waiting for transport to take me to the Royal London for a two week course of intravenous antibiotics. Again. I did say to John that they will now have another chance to kill me; they failed miserably in 2010. So we will see. And-the building is a new one, just completed two years ago, costing many millions of pounds-would you believe there is something they forgot (forgot?????) to include: wi-fi. There is NO wi-fi on the ward. I am already prepared to get my little self up and dressed and -once they've given me the armful of toxic substances-to walk outside and find an internet cafe. I will be found outside in Whitechapel, wandering around, sitting in Starbucks having coffee. I'm allergic to hospitals, too!

Yesterday morning I heard on the news that Robin Williams committed suicide. I was very upset; I thought he was incredibly talented. Not all his jokes made me laugh-but not all my jokes make anyone else laugh, either. Still, the man was a comic genius. The comedy world is poorer for his passing.

I am still wondering why, with all his celebrity, and talent, and money, and love from family and friends, Williams still chose to end his life. It saddened me, because there have been times in the last four years that the thought crossed my mind-briefly, but when I was unable to get out of bed for the first two years, I didn't think I could survive as a semi-vegetable. And I still get depressed when I suddenly fall over, or I reach for something and miss it entirely-it still gets me down. The difference is that I refuse to give up, so when I fall I get up and swear (and get the bandages, because there always seems to be blood loss).

I see Dr. Dimples in September, and I know he will tell me that he is discharging me from the neurology clinic because I will have come as far as I am likely to go. Well, that's fine for him to say. I'm not quitting. I'm not giving up. I'll just keep bleeding...

Five woks and a nutcracker

This last week was the lead-in for yesterday: four years to the day since three cretins refused to stop gentamicin, and they succeeded in destroying my life. Actually, they destroyed my life as I knew it. I need to add that, since I am having to come to terms with it four years later. It has been a very tough week.

Yesterday was really bad. I didn't know what to do with myself; I didn't feel like cleaning (eeesh, I feel like I am always cleaning-especially when stressed), I didn't even go for the Kettle Chips. I must have really been in bad shape. I struggle to overcome the anger, hatred and bitterness I felt for three out of those four years-and, hey, some people hang onto things forever. I know it is unhealthy and unhelpful-I'm working on it. Some days are better than others. Yesterday wasn't one of them.

I was cleaning the kitchen on Friday (you can see I don't have a life, can't you?) and came across some woks. My sister used to tease me about having six woks: nobody needs six woks, what are you doing, opening a restaurant? But I am always ready to move on-wherever I'm living, I seem to be poised and ready to move if somewhere else looks like it might be better. And, every time I move, I'm so loaded with boxes that I can never find anything. So-actually, we are talking about five woks, not six (sorry, Jessie-close, though). One wok is still in storage-along with most of the rest of my life-and four were at home.

I couldn't palm off a wok no matter how much I tried. I gave one to the charity shop-they were delighted, but not as delighted as I was! And Claire decided to take one; she said that, since she is now single, she can cook what she wants, and she wants to learn how to stir-fry without the danger of burning the house down. I did offer Sara one-but she said that if she couldn't microwave it, she wouldn't eat it. That, she stated, is why someone invented the microwave-and the restaurant. So I now have two-and one is a mini-wok, so it doesn't count.

I had an incredible number of glasses. Who needs about sixty glasses? I collected them over the years: wine glasses, tumblers, rocks glasses, any number of glasses-I don't know anyone who drinks that much! So, off to the charity shop: a wok, dozens of glasses, saucepans, all kinds of kitchen stuff, and several nutcrackers. Okay, so who needs five nutcrackers? I don't even use one. I use a hammer. And it works better than any nutcracker I have ever used. Just use a hammer. Bang, wallop, Bob's your uncle: job done.

I remember years ago, in the Middle Ages sometime-I was an antiques dealer. I used to go around all the flea markets, and the antique markets, and one day I was looking in the window of a shop near mine and I had to go in and have a look. There were two items that I found really intriguing: one was (I was told) and old electroshock machine. I did ask the dealer (whom I knew) if it still worked, and he offered to try it on me. Er...no thanks, I said. And what is the other thing-the thing that looks like a medieval torture device?

He said that is really what it was: it was a castrating machine. It wasn't electric; it worked on a ratchet system. Great. I thought every woman in an abusive relationship should have one. In fact, I said I thought every woman should have one. You never know when it will come in handy, do you? But if you slip, it doesn't half hurt your thumbs. I thought it was phenomenal-to this day I wish I had bought it. Would I have sold it one? Hell, no. Now that's what I call a nutcracker.

the Vomit List: everyone should have one

I've had a really rough time. All the things that make standing upright without toppling over are things that appeared: extreme heat, rain, barometric pressure changes, sleeplessness, aggravation- the usual. So I've been struggling. But-in a few weeks time, the weather will have changed-then I can complain about cold and damp. Honestly, sometimes you just can't win.

Debbie has gone back to Oz. We all met on Friday for dinner, and we decided to make it a very low-key affair: no fuss, no fanfare, and who knows? She might be back at some point. What was interesting for me was the fact that if Claire's marriage hadn't exploded when it did (or, rather, imploded), we wouldn't have known anything about it. So three reprobates ended up supporting the fourth. Considering that we only really got together once a year, that was a pretty good outcome, I'd say.

We went for Italian, and the wine flowed very nicely. We were ordering,and Deb asked for a bowl of-okra. Ewww, we all went: okra! Nasty, nasty okra. Even the waiter looked at all our faces and said to Deb, "you're not from around here, are you?"

I said I have had what I call a "vomit list" since I was a child. It's a list of food that I will not eat-because even the thought of it makes me want to vomit. So we all named and shamed our least favorite and most hated foods. Lima beans (in this country known as broad beans). Yuck. Nasty. Mushy peas-whoever thought of mushing peas? Ewww...Black pudding. That is a biggie. I first discovered it when I came to live in this country. It's made with someone's blood. I don't know whose blood, but someone's blood. How can anyone eat something like that? Maybe someone who has been watching too many episodes of True Blood.  Oh, well...for Debbie it was bananas (of course it was; she loves okra, what more can I say?). Claire hates avocados-just the sight of guacamole makes her heave. And Sara and I are in agreement: okra is number one on the vomit list. Does okra belong on the plate? No, it should be put down the toilet.

Okra tastes like stringy, slimy, boiled nylon. Okra looks like snot.

So Debbie was enjoying her bowl of snot, and the rest of us were avoiding looking; instead, we just drank more wine. Lots more wine. And  I'm happy to say that I was absolutely fine the next day. I really must drink more wine more often...good excuse, anyway.

Both Claire and Sara are leaving the country at the end of August-so we will, of course, have another good knees-up before they go. We all came together in a crisis-we all made some life decisions that we wouldn't have made until we were forced to do so. Life has a funny way of slamming you with stuff that you just have to handle. It'll keep slamming you until you do handle it...

I've had enormous trouble because next Saturday will mark exactly four years (to the day) since gentamicin wrecked my life-or, rather, my life as I knew it. If I could just press a rewind button and go back four years and force the idiot doctors to remove the cannula from my arm until they could come up with something other than the poison they gave me, I would hit rewind in a heartbeat. But I can't do that; I'm left with all the destruction, and I need to learn how to deal with it.

I do think back. I think back all the time. I've had people tell me how courageous I am, and what an inspiration I am. Personally, I would trade all that for having my four years back. But-I have to learn to deal with the things that are right in front of me, rather than thinking about how things could have (should have) been. Looking back is, I think, one of the primary reasons for depression. And who needs that? Does it help? Of course it doesn't - depression just keeps us from living the best life we can live.

There is a huge difference between acceptance and resignation. I'm still at the resignation stage: what has happened has happened, nothing I can do now can change it, I'm resigned to having no vestibular system, resigned to the fact that there are things I probably will never be able to accomplish.

Acceptance? Hell, no. I will be seeing Dr. Dimples next month, and he will discharge me from the neurology clinic-because he told me last year that I will have come as far as I will ever go, and no further. Well-perhaps I will tell him that I did the Race for Life and see what he says then.

I'm still improving, even though improvement has slowed dramatically. I'm not dead yet-therefore I am not giving up just yet. The people who succeed are the ones who never give up-who look at the naysayers and say yeah, yeah, whatever-and just keep going.

I guess I have grown a lot stronger in the last four years-out of necessity more than anything else. And we will see how I get on when it is suddenly next Saturday. How positive will I be then? I will let you know. One thing I DO know is this: whatever you want to accomplish, whatever you want to do, don't listen to anyone else. Keep at it. Keep putting one foot in front of the other (even, if like me, you topple over every once in awhile).The naysayers? Just keep thinking that, if nothing else, you will outlive them all. Just lay off the okra.