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).
Tuesday 23 September 2014
Thursday 18 September 2014
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!
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!
Sunday 14 September 2014
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!
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!
Thursday 4 September 2014
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.
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.
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