Well, Jingle my Bells

Yesterday morning I had what I call a case of the Christmas Day Blues. I really wanted to be home, celebrating with family and friends-mostly friends, because whenever my family got together, it ended up a free for all. I truly don't miss my family at all (as the saying goes, you can pick your friends, but you are stuck with your family).

Plus, it seems like the death rate goes up at Christmas. Accidents, illness, age-these things can't be helped. It isn't as if you can say "pardon me, I want to wait until the 3rd of January to pop my clogs". But people wait until Christmas to off themselves. How very inconsiderate of them. How bloody rude, in fact. Someone has to clean up the mess at Christmas (so glad it isn't me).

My friend's mother died last week. Another friend's brother in law died last week. People are dropping like flies. The unemployment rate (according to the a**holes in this government) have dropped dramatically. That is because the death rate has risen. And all this at Christmas...

But there was some happy news yesterday. Britain has its first astronaut in space-he's called Tim something or other-Peakes, I think. I just call him Twin Peaks. It's easier to remember (and if you don't get the reference, there is always everyone's best friend: Google). So Twin Peaks decided to call home-from the space station-to wish his family a Happy Christmas. And he called the wrong number. The people were shocked when they discovered that it wasn't a hoax call.

Imagine: this prat (there goes another pound in the shoebox) is trusted with millions of pounds of spaceship and hardware, plus his crew-and he can't even make a phone call. Duh. What a schmuck (and there goes yet another pound). Did I mention that Twin Peaks is in space? He's spaced, all right.

So I went along to the church to help out with their Christmas lunch (for eighty people who had nowhere else to go). I helped wash vegetables, and I put crosses in the sprouts (I was on sprout patrol). It was all well planned, since this church does this every year. Most of the people were very nice-all except one grumpy old woman called Nell. She was offended by the fact that I was casually dressed. Oh, excuse me: I'm working in a church kitchen on Christmas Day. What was I supposed to do-wear a tiara? It transpired that Nell spent most of her life waitressing, so she (naturally) knew everything about kitchen work. At one point, she (deciding that she was my boss) told me not to take any plates out because lack of balance meant that I would possibly drop a full plate of food in someone's lap. So she put four plates up her arm-of course, Nell was the expert, wasn't she?- and set off on her way. The rest of us were busy laughing-because there was an almighty crash, and three full plates of food ended up on the kitchen floor. I was doubled over-nobody else could stop shaking with laughter, either. And Nell was told by the real boss-John-to clean up her mess. I was conscripted to leave the sprout patrol and go serve. I have to say that I did it perfectly-no food anywhere except where it belonged: on the plate. Poor old Nell was most unhappy. Like I gave a shit (yes, I know: a pound in the swear box).

After everyone was finished, and we'd cleaned up, I came back, made a strong cup of coffee, and my very good friend from Pennsylvania called me. It was great: a long chat was just what I needed. I really felt like I had done something worthwhile. I was able to chat quickly to some of the guests-and there were people who told me that their children didn't want them, and that I was the first person (apart from the carer who drove them) to talk to them in weeks. For some, it was months. I couldn't help but hope I never end up like that.

How many other older/disabled/homeless/disadvantaged people are out there, with nowhere to go at Christmas, when it should (you would think) be time for families and friends to be together? I didn't have Christmas (or any holiday) in 2010. My life seems to be divided into BG (before Gentamicin) and AG (after Gentamicin). This was the first year I was able to get out and help someone else. I couldn't help but remember all the years when nobody tried to help me-I'm determined to help others avoid that fate. It's really not very pleasant.

So today is Boxing Day, when stores are open and people are killing each other over items they would never otherwise buy-except that stuff is on sale. Just what everyone needs: more stuff. I'm avoiding going anywhere I see a "sale" sign. For some reason, I am just not in shopping mode. I am, however, in eating mode. I might even decide to be in "glass of wine" mode. After all, I made it through another year, and believe me when I say it hasn't been easy. But I'm still here. Still swearing like a sailor.

My swear box is nearly full-and it isn't even the end of the year yet. Amazing. I will, in 2016, learn to swear in French. It sounds terribly romantic - and I will save myself a bloody fortune. I wonder if Twin Peaks swore when he realized that the entire country knows he is a total pillock..

'Tis the Season to be Maudlin

Actually, it's the season to sit back and watch while people are busy beating the living crap out of each other over a bag of brussels sprouts. Now-that was this morning, while the lines for payment were so huge you would think there was a famine. One bag of sprouts, two idiots fighting-I like sprouts, but not enough to get arrested for assault. On Christmas Eve, yet!

So many people are using this time to fight. Even the idiots in the government are fighting. Perhaps we should change today's name to Tosser Thursday. I don't even get upset anymore; I just shake my head in disbelief and watch ordinary people suddenly turn into savages. And I stay home, if I can.

This is-you wouldn't believe it if you watch the "news" (or, rather, the newsreaders' opinion, usually having nothing to do with any news whatsoever), or hear people talking outside, sometimes loud enough to burst your eardrums - a time when some people (myself included) become very soppy and sentimental. I begin to look back at the year and wonder where the time went, and wonder (with amazement) how I am still alive (and, occasionally, thriving). I find myself developing a sudden case of what I call "Christmas OCD": what have I accomplished, apart from not dying? That is obviously quite an accomplishment-for me, anyway-but I have done precious little-apart from all those hospital appointments.Huh. Once again, I haven't had a life. I've survived-but I haven't lived. Not really.

If I ignore what is going on in the world - not an easy feat, considering I am very political, and I get hugely pissed off (and there goes another pound into the swear box/Bahamas fund) at the government, at the implosion of the NHS, and the dire state of this country (it wasn't like this when I first came over here. That isn't what I call progress; it is what I call regress). It's very frustrating when you know that you can't really do anything to change things, because apathy is what rules here.Ick.

I've been thinking about the year that is just ending-and I've decided (again) not to start the new year in the way I'm finishing this one. I was in the supermarket this morning, watching the sprout fight (and laughing, I confess), and one of the sales people said to me that there are three things she doesn't ever worry about: the weather, traffic (absolutely nothing to be done to change either of those, is there?), and other people's opinions and attitudes. Very wise-I don't know why she said that-it was out of the blue-but obviously it was something I needed to hear at the time. I most definitely heard her. There is a lesson in there somewhere...

Well, the cards and presents are out, the Christmas lights are up (I told you: I'm sentimental), I'm already thinking about how I am going to start living in 2016, and tomorrow I am going to one of the local churches to help with feeding 80 people who have no place to go on Christmas Day. These are older people whose children (in some cases) are busy, or just don't want them around; there are some who are homeless; there are some who have no family at all. I used to do this years ago, but then Gentamicin 2010 happened, and I couldn't do anything.  Now I feel like I can carry two full plates of food and not drop one (or both) on someone's head.

Wouldn't that put a damper on someone's Christmas! I see waiters and waitresses who can carry plates of food all the way up their arms and not drop anything-and I have to admire them. In fact, I'm a bit jealous. I couldn't even do that when I still had a balance mechanism. So when I rang around three weeks ago, found a church that's doing Christmas lunch for the -what, aged? Needy? I don't even want to put a negative label on them - I told them that I can do a lot, but not everything. I could feel them practically jumping up and down as we were talking on the phone.

I will be spending the day peeling sprouts (I'm the sprout peeler), chopping parsnips (hopefully there will be no blood loss and swearing), and serving up. So fingers crossed that no plates of food go flying across the room.

I will naturally be posting about my new job as a potato/parsnip/sprout peeler and server- and I wish each and every one of you a very Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year.

I will probably have a full swear box before New Year's Day. In fact, I'm planning on it!

It's Panic Saturday (ho ho ho)

Black Friday. Cyber Monday. Now Panic Saturday. It's the last weekend before Christmas, and that is why someone has chosen to call this a panic day: because it is the last chance to buy presents before the big day. And you should see the fighting!

This is more like fight club: people turn into savages. The prospect of buying anything, no matter how cheap and nasty it is -as long as it is on sale- seems to bring out everyone's inner Neanderthal. People punching each other over marked-down televisions (not expensive ones like Sony, but no name ones, like...? who??), women ripping dresses so that someone else won't be able to buy them, and, of course, the prize: I saw someone punch someone in the face over a pair of Uggs. Uggs!! These are supposed to be made in Australia (at least, originally), and they are probably called Uggs because that is Australian for ugly. Ugly. Yuck. Australia has gotten even with the Brits for all the people sent to Oz as a penalty. These things are - well, awful. Buy Uggs if you want to go outside and look like a Yeti. Bring out your inner Essex: everyone will see that you have absolutely no taste whatsoever. And people do battle over this crap? Ewww!

I'm just keeping my head down. I went to the Tate Modern the other day (I took my life in my hands and braved the idiots),and saw the Alexander Calder exhibition, which was excellent. I did my infusions at the hospital on Thursday, and now-hallef****ing lujah, I have a week off. No doctors. No tests. No hospitals. No nothing. I am a free woman. And I won't know what to do with myself, it has been so long since I have been free.

I've also started a swear box (would you believe). It's in pounds sterling, since that is the local currency-and a pound is worth somewhere around $1.50, so I am ripping myself off. But every time I use a four letter word (which I do a lot outside, as people practically knock me over because it takes a modicum of intelligence to look where they are walking), it's a pound in the box. As we get closer to Christmas, and tempers become more and more frayed out there, I will soon be trading my shoebox for a suitcase. At the current rate, by next Christmas I should be able to buy a trip to the Bahamas. Perhaps I'll just be able to buy the Bahamas.

I was cheered by the news that Britain has finally put an astronaut into space. Of course, the Russians and Americans did this nearly half a century ago...but the Brits are treating this like nobody else has ever been in space before (it's like the Olympics, where Britain came a distant and humiliating third place, and everyone was so busy slapping themselves on the back that I was surprised that the hospitals weren't filled with people who dislocated their shoulders).

I must say that I was pleased, though. After all, someone finally has the intelligence to become an astronaut. It just goes to show you: sperm banks and surrogacy really do work.

The other item that hit the news was Keith Richards-the ancient pop star is complaining about migrants coming to his village. When all the photos of those poor people hit the news, people in this country wanted to know why David Cameron (you remember him: the tool who is Prime Minister) didn't want to take what his European counterparts believed (and still believe) refused to take Britain's fair share of migrants to be resettled here. There was a huge outcry. And now, people (not just Keith Richards, but many others) are saying we should take the migrants, but don't put them in my village. We don't want them next door.

The unfairness of this position really rankles me. I would swear, but I save that for times when I have to deal with idiots outside-or when I fall over, which I am happy to say is a rare occurrence these days. Isn't it our responsibility-as a country that has so much-to care for those who have so little?

People say that I should write this blog about my progress after gentamicin (and cancer), and leave my political views out of it. But-I want everyone to know what it is like for an American to live here-not a rich pop star or actress, but just a working stiff, one of the worker bees who actually works (or, worked-up until gentamicin finished that possibility forever).

Everything that happens outside affects everything that happens in here - it's a vestibular thing. I get upset, or I don't sleep well, or I'm overtired, or the weather changes, or I don't eat well or drink enough water-all these things affect my balance (and my ability to get more back). And nothing winds me up more than idiocy-except, perhaps, injustice.

I just keep my head down, and I keep resolving to keep my mouth shut-but you know that isn't going to happen in a hurry. Even Parliament is filled with punch-ups. Shall we leave the EU? Shall we stay? If we stay, why do we let Brussels dictate what we can and cannot do? And so on. The country is falling apart, the NHS is a mess, and the politicians-well, they're politicians. They couldn't even put on a nativity play-because they couldn't find three wise men. And there is a great deal of doubt as to whether any of the politicians have a penis and a brain. Many don't seem to have either.

I'll be a blue nosed reindeer

When I was growing up, my parents forbade me to say any bad words in the house. "Bad", to them, meant things like "damn"-which got me grounded for a week when I said it. The object was to ensure that I would grow up to be a lady (please, everyone who knows me, don't choke on your muesli when I say that-I'm still a work in progress. Damn.). Anything worse than that got me grounded for a month. Unfair, I thought-but I also was threatened with having my mouth washed out with soap and water-something my father tried because I cut my finger and shouted "oh, fuck"- well, excuse me, but I was bleeding all over the kitchen floor at the time. He only tried once-first, I threw up over him, then I kicked him. Hard. And he didn't try that again in a hurry. If someone did that today, they would be arrested for child cruelty. In those days? Hmmm...

So, off I went to university, and the first person I met was named Betty. Betty smoked about three packs of Marlboro a day-in fact, I never saw her without a cigarette in her mouth. She also had a mouth like a sewer, and she drank-well, I wondered where on earth she put it all. And that was my introduction to university. I hung out with Betty for my first year-but then, she was having so much fun, she flunked out. Bye bye Betty. Sad, really. I learned how to drink (and that was terrible, because I just wasn't good at it. I didn't like alcohol, and it certainly didn't like me. But I tried. What a trouper).I learned how to smoke (cigarettes, kids, cigarettes. And I did try the other stuff, but, of course, I didn't inhale. Yeah, right? If Bill Clinton can give us that load of crap, so can I).

Every time I went home to see my family, I had to watch my language. My mother had this bright idea of putting a "swear box" on the table. Bad word? That's a dollar in the box. I found it amusing until one day my mother dropped something in the kitchen, and said "oh, shit" (you did know that was coming, didn't you?), and I said "that will be a dollar in the swear box". We had a big fight over that; she refused, saying that she could swear, but I couldn't- and I told her where she could put her swear box, and I turned around and left. I didn't go back to see them for a year. When I told Betty all this, she said that she got around swearing in front of her parents by saying "I'll be a blue nosed reindeer!", instead of "I'll be damned". And-she said to shout oh sugar-and oh, poo, and-I love this one-oh, freak! You can't argue with those, can you? Still, by the time I graduated, the swear box was full several times over. I have a hunch that my parents bought a brand new car with the proceeds from the swear box-it's a hunch. Probably a good one.

I mention all this for a reason (don't I always?). The Friday before last (the 14th) I had to go see a cardiologist at the Royal Free. Several tests that had been taken at the Royal London (and Barts) were repeated. That turned out to be a good thing. It was at Barts that I was told in 2012 that I would never develop breast cancer (oops. Idiots!). It was at Barts that I was given gentamicin, and told that it was safe (as if) and that I would be monitored (oh yeah. That didn't happen)-and we all know what a huge success that wasn't. It was also at Barts (and the London-all part of the same hospital trust) that I was told several years ago, after a stress test and an echocardiogram, that I have a bad heart valve. They said they would "watch it" - no prizes if you guessed that never happened. So, I had all the same tests again at the Royal Free.

On the Friday, I went to meet the new cardiologist. He was great: great manner, very reassuring, professional, and his wife is one of my doctors (he laughed when I told him this. Then he was even more reassuring. He showed me the results of the tests, and showed me the echo, suggesting that I probably knew how to read the screen in front of me (I did). And-there is nothing wrong with my heart valve. It isn't defective, it is fine. In fact, there is nothing wrong with my heart at all. I have, he said, a perfect heart. That was such great news, I could have hugged him (I didn't). My heart, after all, is number 1 on my list of top ten organs. And I have a perfect heart. So much for Barts and the London. I practically skipped out the door (I didn't; I would have ended up falling and breaking something).

I wanted to come back and get online and post this on Friday-but, Murphy's Law being Murphy's Law, I was already feeling really sick by the time I got back from the hospital. I got hit by the vomiting virus-another virus that is going around (there are several), and leaves you with your head in a bucket for a week. The worst part-even worse than puking my guts up (so sorry if you're reading this while eating), was that I had to go and see Dr. Dimples on Monday. I managed-how, I don't know-but I sat in the clinic and kept thinking that someone had passed this virus along to me, and why are these people breathing? If they would only stop breathing, I would be perfectly healthy. Sad, really. But Dimples was great, very pleased with my progress, and wants me to carry the elbow crutch on the other side-and stay off it as much as possible. I'll see him again in 6 months; he is monitoring my progress, along with the folks at Queen Square.

I'm so happy that all my medical appointments are coming to a close for this year. I only have my infusions every two weeks-and one more test at the end of December-but this one won't be irradiating or magnetizing me, so I should be fine by New Year's.

Of course, I was incensed at the news that Obama (the odious Obama) has turned around and said that he is putting boots on the ground in Syria. Sure-he's a lying scumbag, because he promised not to do that. He is just another inept politician-and politicians, as we know, only lie when they are breathing. If they could lie in their sleep, they would. What a bastard (that's two dollars I owe the swear box). Why is it that it is always OUR men and women who have to go in first, risk their lives, when the only other people who seem keen are the French? And they are only keen because of Paris. Who knows how many of our men and women are going to die-after being hideously tortured?

This whole thing just really pisses me off (that's three dollars). The last time we sent our soldiers into someone else's country, fighting a war we couldn't possibly win, was Vietnam. And we all know what a huge success that wasn't, don't we? I wish I knew the answer.

I know what isn't the answer: Donald "Mr. Comb over" Trump, the chief dick of the United States (yes, another dollar. Well deserved). He has done more to damage the reputation of the United States overseas than (God help us) George W. Bush. And that is saying something, because people still sneer and comment on Bush. Now Trump. If anyone has added to the desire for terrorist attacks on US soil, it is Trump. What a prat (I'm losing count). There are online petitions to ban him from this country-and there are more than 500,000 signatures-and counting. Now, if we could also ban him from the United States, we could all have a party: a kick the crap out of Donald the Dickhead party (anyone keeping count? I've given up).

So, it just goes to show you: you can be a millionaire, or a billionaire, and still have zero common sense, and be a racist, bigot, misogynist, and general tosser-plus have no charm, no personality, probably very little hair, and be incredibly ugly. Did I miss anything?

And now you are up to date. I'm just keeping my head down and hoping that everyone who actually backs that piece of s**t (no money for that one!) returns to something resembling good sense. Hopefully. But if they voted for Bush-who is to say? This country sucks, my country is in the grip of Trump insanity, the French are-well, the French- and there is nowhere on earth where we can all go and hide. Yuck. Someone pass the Kettle Chips.

The Camel: redefined (by me)

You all know what a camel is: it's a horse that is designed by a committee. I wish I could take credit for that-but no, it came from my grandmother, who delivered many pearls of wisdom as I was growing up. That one was when I was old enough to be interested in politics (an interest which lasted about a year, but waned as I became totally disillusioned). Other brilliant pearls include: never volunteer for anything (I only just started to listen to that one. Talk about late!). Always wear clean underwear, you never know when you will be hit by a car (everyone has heard of that one, it seems to be universal). And-wear matching underwear so you don't embarrass yourself in the ambulance (huh?). Another firm favorite: if God wanted us to look back, he would have put our eyes in the back of our heads. Hmmm....good point. But my personal favorite: do squats. Do squats every day, at least 100 squats. That way, you will never, ever have to sit on a public toilet seat. (plus, you will have really strong quads. It's a win-win, isn't it?).

Granny was a very smart woman. And she made the best blueberry pie I have ever tasted. Forget the Jamie Olivers, the Niges, the bake off what's her face-granny's blueberry pie trumped them all. I went to visit her just for the pie-she always baked a fresh one when the grandkids came to see her-so whether we wanted to or not, we went for the pie. And there is the greatest lesson of all time: never underestimate the value of bribery.

The Thanksgiving weekend passed without incident-except that now everyone in the government is fighting everyone else. As usual. The French are peeved with the Belgians, because the Belgians let the one remaining terrorist lunatic over the border-when the borders were allegedly closed. The Russians are fuming at the Turks for blowing up one of their aircraft-which, the Russians say, was on the way to bomb Syria. The Brits have joined that battle, saying that of course, nobody trusts the Russians (ya think?) and they have to answer for the doping scandal at the Olympics. This, of course, has nothing to do with Syria, but the Brits are accusing Russia of drug taking-completely ignoring the fact that they (Britain) came a distant and humiliating third place in the Olympics anyway. To them, even third place is call for celebrations. Now that figures, doesn't it?

Now Parliament is having a debate-and all their committees are fighting to and against bombing Syria. Cameron, the chief dick of Britain, has finally come off the fence and said that Britain needs to join its allies, France and the United States, and bomb the hell out of all the strongholds in Syria. This is, of course, Britain being late to the party, as usual. They only join in after everyone else has done all the work, has taken financial responsibility, and has risked (and lost) the lives of brave men and women who have been fighting Islamic State terrorist maniacs for years. Britain wants everyone else to do the work, and then it will sneak in and say they did their part. And the most annoying part:
we have in this country, a total moron called Jeremy Corbyn, who is the leader of the Labour Party. Corbyn is so against dropping bombs, he has told all his MPs to vote against joining the fight; the voting on this is tomorrow. Corbyn says we should arrest these guys and bring them to trial. I wonder what planet Corbyn is living on-certainly not this one! Arrest them? Try to negotiate? EXCUSE ME? These are monsters who kill because they like it, not for any real religious ideology. What is Corbyn going to do: invite them to tea, and have a chat about ethics while the terrorists shoot up half of London? The man is delusional. Corbyn, sadly, has a lot of followers in Parliament. They call themselves "peaceful", and perhaps they think they can pray their way out of attacks here in Britain. I've got a better definition of these well-meaning but rather stupid people: cowards. They aren't reserved; they are cowardly. And this is where there is a problem, because Corbyn and his idiot followers are saying that no attacks will take place in this country. That is exactly what they said before the London bombings a decade ago. Well, their declarations didn't go so well then, did they?

I've now decided to just keep my head down, and to shut up in public. Stabbings are up, there are guns out there-crime is sky high, although the government claims that crime has dropped. Sure-crime and unemployment have dropped, but the death rate has risen dramatically. Fire engines are being sold off  to save money-and the fire brigade chief says that this is still okay, and that everything can be handled as usual. Tell that to the people whose houses are burning down.

Everything the government does (or, more likely, doesn't do) affects me in one way or another, because I still have to live here, still have to travel, and I refuse to be conquered by fear. Been there, done that-I've lived with fear for five and a half years, and it was the fear (and anger at injustice) that kept me going. So no more fear-vigilance, caution, not swearing at anyone who crashes into me (at least, not out loud), because you never know who is armed. And a lot of people are armed.

Now I've got a question for any readers who are in the USA (and my friends over there keep up with this, so you get to answer): who on earth decided to back Donald Trump for President? Mr. Comb-over, who has a permanent bad hair day (call it a bad hair life-why not just be bald and be done with it?). The man is ignorant. He is a misogynist, racist (by all accounts), an absolute joke who will make us the laughing stock of the entire planet if he got anywhere near the White House, and, let's face it, he is the douche bag from Hell. Who is backing him: Bush supporters?

I consider the possibility of the Donald as President and I get an immediate stomach cramp. And who are these other contenders? And Obama-well, he's such a tool, I will be glad to be rid of him, but we need someone who is strong enough to try to undo the damage Obama's done in his tenure as chief prat of the world. Clinton-let's have a woman President, someone who has balls and will fight for us, not some idiot whose hair will go flying in a strong wind.

I wonder how the Donald keeps his few strands of hair down. Does he use tape? Or some kind of glue? Wouldn't it be more than mildly amusing if there was a debate among the hopefuls-and someone brought a really powerful wind machine? Now that would be a bit of fun! Perhaps he'll give Sarah Palin a second shot as Vice President. Then I predict there will be a mass exodus: about 300 million people moving out of the States until it is safe to return. Yikes??

HAPPY THANKSGIVING from your favorite London lurking twerker

Well, that might be going overboard slightly. But I am lurking-lurking near the turkey, as I am basting it and getting ready to stuff my face (one of my many talents). I'm using a soup spoon in lieu of a turkey baster. Gosh, I wish I had a turkey baster.

I'm on strike from talking about the government's latest asinine antics: no critique of the world class wankers today, it is Thanksgiving Day, and I am just really happy to be able to write. In fact, I'm happy to be able to walk! This is the first Thanksgiving since 2009 that I really feel like giving thanks. After that, life went all to hell: gentamicin (we all know how well that worked out, don't we?), cancer...I'm so very lucky to be alive, and lucky to be pretty healthy (yeah, I know: for my age. I'd like to slap people who say that, even if it is true).

I remember my mother using a turkey baster; it had a rubber bulb on one end, and a glass tube with a narrow hole at the end. All you did was suck up the juice and baste the bird.Easy peasy. I'm sure someone still makes them. I'll have to go hunting. In fact, that would be great for me to take on my travels. Just suck up something noxious, and when some idiot (invariably) knocks me and is nasty, all I have to do is take out my trusty turkey baster, aim-and shoot. What are they going to do, have me arrested? Can you imagine, being charged with assault with a turkey baster? How hilarious that would be. What will be next, a soup ladle?

I went to see The Book of Mormon yesterday. I braved both terrorists and imbeciles (none of the former, plenty of the latter), using the Underground (I try never to use the tube, I'm short and I always come up to someone's armpit. Usually that someone hasn't had a bath in a couple of-decades. Phew!) and the bus (almost as bad as the Underground). Piccadilly Circus was heaving with people, and there wasn't a policeman (or policewoman) in sight. No surprise there! They were knocking me, and knocking each other, and there was a lot of swearing in many different languages. Someone next to me was shouting abuse at someone who had run into him, and when he was finished, I asked him what language he was speaking (only I would do something like that. I'm either fearless or foolish. Or both). He said he was speaking Urdu. I asked him if he was telling the idiot to f*** off-and, if he was, would he teach me how to say it in Urdu. He just looked at me-then he shook his head, and said that I would be better off not knowing. Then he walked away. Damn-I can say it in a few languages, but they are all the popular ones. So much for Urdu. I would ask my friend Dani how to say it in Russian, but I don't think she would be at all amused. Oh, well-it was an idea, anyway. 

So today I have to really think about all the things I am thankful for-and there are a lot. I know that people say that you should make a gratitude list, and that reminding yourself to feel grateful is a good antidote to stress (so is smacking someone with an elbow crutch). 

Well. I'm grateful, I give thanks, for the fact that I can dance around the house, stick my butt out and twerk-or at least, jiggle my wobbly bits and do a good imitation of a twerk. To all those skinny people who do a mean twerk: I salute you. Maybe if I do it a lot, I will have a smaller butt. And, by the way, I didn't fall over. So that is a bloody miracle, considering how hard I was laughing at the time. 

It has been a long, very tough-arduous, in fact-road I've traveled over the last few years, and I've amazed a lot of people with my strength and resilience. I've been told many times that I am an inspiration to other people. Mostly, I think I have been a royal pain in the ass-but this pain in the ass is still here, still pushing to get better, still in everyone's face (especially the doctors). 

I've had a lot of support from some very good friends-but they aren't in this country. So, I've had to do everything on my own, without any help from anyone. I had to prove to myself that I could get better, that I could reach the point where I wouldn't have to rely on anyone else to look after me-and I've done exactly that. And I will keep doing exactly that, since it seems to be very difficult for me to ask anyone else for help. So the moral of my continuing story is: never give up. Never quit. Never.

I wish everyone a very happy Thanksgiving. I'm getting the parsnips, and potatoes, and sprouts-oh, sorry, I don't want to make you hungry (even though in about a half an hour I will be stuffing my face. Yum!). But I've been looking forward to being able to make a Thanksgiving dinner for five years-without burning the house down. 

Then I'm going shopping. For a turkey baster. 

And just for the record...

Well, for the record: knitting? Seriously? There would be a lot of swearing, and blood loss. I cannot think of much that would be more boring (and painful) than sticking myself with a knitting needle.

So I am going to see The Book of Mormon in the West End. Any terrorists can be my guest and shove their explosives up their backsides. With all that I have gone through over the last five and a half years- one thing I most certainly not is afraid. And don't you be, either.

Doing the Victory War Dance

The world seems to have gone completely nuts-even more nuts than it was already.

While I was doing my due diligence, going through all the tests, being magnetized, irradiated, blood-letted, poked, prodded, and everything except dissected (they probably would have wanted to do that, too, but I moved faster than they did), the French got the ringleader of the terrorists. I heard this on the news when I got back from seeing the throat people-and finding out that they need to do another biopsy. But more about that later.

Well, I heard the news about Abaaoud, and on went my happy face, I was punching the air, and doing a happy dance-which I called my victory war dance. I danced around my little apartment, did a little jig, and even did something which remotely resembled a twerk-and all without falling over, which is quite an accomplishment, I can tell you. The words "twerk", and "jig" will make my friends (who keep up with this blog) smile. Now there is a visual nobody will forget in a hurry! And so much for the Christian/Jewish/Buddhist/Taoist/Unitarian/Quaker/Wiccan/anyone else I have left out (sorry) qualities of compassion, love and forgiveness. Since when do homicidal maniacs deserve any of those? Nope-I'm a hard liner where that is concerned.

Don't go to Mali (who would want to, anyway?). Don't go to Germany (especially Hanover. People are being blown up in Hanover). Don't go to Brussels (it's been shut for awhile, anyway). Brussels is the Mecca of terrorists-there is an entire section of the city where these maniacs have settled in order to plan their next attacks. Plus, it's also the home of organized pedophile rings, and neo-Nazi groups.
Of course, don't come here, because-oh, that's right, there are very few police!! And Cameron and the rest of Parliament are pussy footing around, having debates about how to destroy IS-while the French and Americans are actually taking action.

In fact, don't go anywhere. Stay home. Learn how to knit.

I think that everyone, everywhere should be concerned-not terrified, but concerned. Vigilant. Everyone is a target. And it is difficult to eradicate homicidal maniacs who just love to kill, indiscriminately, while using their religion as an excuse. This isn't Islam. This is genocide.

My medical ordeal is nearly at an end. My throat guy managed to take a biopsy that was too small (what a total idiot!), so the biopsy needs to be repeated. It was horrendous enough the first time, and now they are going to do it all over again. Wonderful. I just love the feeling that a flame thrower has been shoved down my throat-and that someone seems to have punched me in the jaw while I was sedated. And-I'm pretty sure that nothing is terribly wrong, anyway.

All the results are showing that I am in excellent health - for my age, they tell me. I can live very nicely without the "for my age", thanks. But all my hard work is paying off, and even my balance has begun to improve, although the change in the weather left me stumbling around for a few days. That was a little disconcerting-but I was advised to expect it, so I simply decided that the setbacks are temporary. I just keep going. I fall, I pick myself up, I keep going. I won't give in.

And speaking of not giving in: in my opinion, we all need to be vigilant, but not be afraid to go out, to do things, to live as normally as possible. Of course, we can be in a situation like Paris-or Mali-or Brussels-or Hanover-or be on a plane and wonder if we are going to make it to our destination in one piece. But if we give in to the fear of being victims of terrorist lunatics, then we have lost. And they have won. They want to destroy us, and they want to destroy our way of life. Let's make sure they don't succeed. For that, it takes people power. It takes everyone to work together to defeat the terrorists-if, indeed, they can be defeated, since they seem to be everywhere. Is it do-able? I think so.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day-and I have given a great deal of thought over things that make me grateful. I will be posting tomorrow. And stuffing my face, of course. I'm still here. I've become a lot stronger than I ever imagined I could be-so I will be posting-and eating. What's not to like?

And another thing...

I didn't say this - but - don't go to Paris. Obviously...

Fluctuat nec mergitur: France goes to war. Again.

I had all good intentions on Saturday morning. I was on a roll; I would return to the gym. Unfortunately, this would involve being able to raise my arms and move my legs-and I truly was walking like I had just lost my virginity (yes, I can remember back that far!).

In fact, if you'd put some makeup on me I would have been terrific as an extra from The Walking Dead. And that is what I get for being so enthusiastic about returning to the gym after a very, very long time away. Not a good idea to overdo it at any age-age is irrelevant, it's the fitness (or lack thereof) that makes all the difference.

So I walked-in the rain, in the cold, and for another day I was cold, wet and p***ed off. But I walked, because, as you know, if I don't I will lose what I have worked so hard to achieve: some balance. The more I walk, and bend, and twist, and fall over and get up again, the harder my brain has to work to compensate for the total vestibular destruction. It's a real pain (many times literal pain, too), but it is a huge challenge, and I'm damned if I am going to spend the rest of my life using an elbow crutch.

On the way back, I stopped to buy the newspaper-and there it was, all over every paper, even the tabloid rags (I'm still amazed that they actually were able to spell Paris. Must have had someone do a spell check). So I came back and read through the Times, and learned that on Friday night there was another massacre in the French capital. I suddenly wasn't hungry. Or thirsty. And I was definitely not in a "let's take the mickey" kind of mood. It's a moratorium on French jokes. Even the idea hurts.

This was at the end of a week that saw an 87 year old woman, sitting on a London bus and minding her own business (as one does when one is 87, I would imagine), being punched in the face by a 14 year old girl. The poor woman suffered a black eye and other injuries, the unprovoked attack made all the headlines, and she will probably get off with a warning-because that is what "justice" means in this country: there isn't any. Knife crimes are up; there are shootings; the government massages the figures to show that unemployment is down-sure, it's down, but the death rate is zooming.

This was the end of a week in which the NHS was found to have missed all its targets for the year, because there isn't any money (unless you are a politician, a consultant, the managers of hospitals, of course, because that is clearly where the money is going).

This was a week in which we learned that the budget cuts in every council in every borough have to be so severe that in London they have even cut the police force: by ten thousand officers. Yes, that is what I said: ten thousand policemen (and women) are now unemployed. And Paris suffers a terrorist attack in which 129 people are dead, over 350 are injured, and 99 out of those 350 are in critical condition. And the French are now fighting back. And good for them, too.

The Eiffel Tower is bathed in the French colors, red, white and blue-and across it are the words "fluctuat nec mergitur": tossed but not sunk. President Hollande wasted no time in sending bombers to hit IS in Syria, and has said that they will defeat Islamic State. Every day there is something else. Every day. It's unbelievable that these homicidal maniacs have not been decimated.

David Cameron, the head turd of this government, stated that Britain will stand "shoulder to shoulder" with the French. Of course-until there is a problem, and then Cameron will disappear, as he always does in a crisis. He expressed "sympathy"-and sympathy, as we know, can be found in the dictionary-between shit and syphilis. So much for his sympathy: it's as worthless as he is.

So all the in-fighting has begun. The French let the lead terrorist go over the border into Belgium, even though the borders were (allegedly) closed. So they got some stick for that. And, of course, we ("we" meaning America) will be wading in there, too. Not the Brits: they would much prefer that it is our soldiers who are risking their lives, and our money that is paying for any skirmishes. That is the British way. It all makes me want to puke.

The police in London (what is left of them, that is) are telling us that we are all "safe". They said that just before the London bombings, too, so I don't really believe anything anyone tells us. The Islamic State maniacs (and they are maniacs. What sane, rational people would commit so much slaughter?) have shown that everyone is a target and that nobody is safe. Even in Germany a football game was cancelled because a bomb was found inside the stadium.

As for me, I feel a general sense of unease. I've got the Muslim maniac still upstairs, so that makes me extra careful-but I refuse to be intimidated by fear of anyone.

I had the last of my scans yesterday: a bone density scan, which I will need every two years, since I take anti-cancer medication that affects the bones-and I will have to take it for another eight years, by which time, who knows if I will have any bones left? But I am no longer radioactive, so it is safe for anyone who wants children to come near me!

I'm also back at the gym, now that I am able to walk normally. It really was a bit funny: people were actually getting out of my way as I was walking up the road. I must have looked scary. I'll have to try that again.

While all the politicians from everywhere are pointing fingers and apportioning blame, I am keeping quiet. I have learned the hard way to keep schtum-now if I can only do that when I am outside, that would be such a good idea. You never know who is going to turn around stick one on you-or in you.
Telling off the braindeads just isn't worth the risk-they are not worth the risk.

I'll just hit them with my stick (accidentally, of course). And carry my mace.

What's a small rupture between friends?

After I logged off this morning I walked over to the gym. In the rain. And the cold. And I was nearly there when I decided to put it off for another day. So I turned around, took three steps, and decided that I was going to go whether I wanted to or not. Time to stop being a wuss and to get myself together. I need to start doing things that don't involve hospitals, tests, doctors-I need to start living again. And I used to really like the gym.

So I did some exercises before the start of my training session: treadmill, some leg exercises, all just to really warm up. Then I remembered what I used to like about the gym: I liked getting stronger, fitter, challenging myself just that little bit more, doing just that little bit more than I thought I could do. And, after two and a half years of doing nothing, I felt like I was coming back to normal.

Then my training session started. For an hour I was put through my paces, and did I discover just how unfit I've become? Did I ever!! All the things I used to do-I could barely do-so I know there is a challenge ahead. Another one. I've never been one to run from a challenge. So I hit the session hard, and I have a program to do for the next six weeks, before I am changed up to something more difficult. Er-difficult? I could barely walk out of there, and I had to fake it because my trainer was laughing. Are you in tomorrow? I asked him. Oh, yes, come tomorrow, go through the program, I will help you if you get stuck-he said. So I'm doing this all again tomorrow. If I can walk, that is.

I walked up the road to the supermarket after my training-very slowly. I do mean slowly. People did actually avoid me. I think they thought I was about to keel over. And I went into the supermarket and walked around, but nothing really appealed to me. My trainer had advised eating some high quality protein after the workout, but I honestly wasn't drawn to anything. I saw one of the sales people up on a step ladder, and she looked at me and asked me if I was okay. This is someone who is older - and shorter-than I am, so we get along really well. Really, someone is older-and shorter-than I am. Amazing, especially now that I have, after the workout, shrunk to about four feet tall. I just managed to gasp "gym", and Ann started to laugh. Oh, she said, I know just how you feel. You overdid it. I've done that, too-and you are younger and fitter than I am, she said (I'm too lazy to punctuate-it hurts to lift my arms!). Well, I always overdo it. After such a long time that was just nuts. And then she said: don't worry, dear (I hate being called dear-unless the person calling me that is really, really close-and wouldn't do that because they would know that I hate being called "dear". Grrr!!). You will be fine by tomorrow. Well, perhaps not tomorrow. Or Sunday. Possibly by Monday. Then she looked me up and down and added: or Tuesday. And laughed, and I laughed, and I tried not to think uncharitable thoughts, since Ann was up on the ladder stacking shelves. We both said goodbye, and I thought as I was walking away that it was all fine, and that eventually she would probably fall off the ladder and break something, and then I could tell her when I see her that everything will be fine. In a couple of months. Maybe three. Or four.

I feel like I have strained every muscle in my body. Or possibly ruptured a few. Not only that, but I have aches in places where I didn't even know I had muscles (at least not ones I could strain by doing weight training!). Even my face hurts. How is that possible? I didn't lift any weights with my face! And I'm walking like I've just lost my virginity (yes, I can remember back that far!!).

By tomorrow I expect not to be bent over-or even folded over-and I will probably go back to the gym but I won't do quite so much. I could, of course, be very optimistic at this point, but we'll see. I could, of  course, be so sore by tomorrow that I can't get out of bed-but I will let you know.

Oh-I got back and stuffed my face with a bag of Kettle Chips, and felt instantly better. Ow. Oink. Who cares? I worked it off, and that is my story and I'm sticking to it.

Boobs on Parade

I've lost a week-or, rather, I've misplaced a week. How very careless of me!

By the time I was finished with my infusions last Thursday-Guy Fawkes Day, when it rained and rather demolished any chance of fireworks- I got back and was so tired, I was pretty comatose. I didn't feel like doing anything-and, because it was pouring outside, I couldn't do anything (except be very, very pissed off).

I really didn't do anything at all for the next few days. I forced myself to walk as much as I could every day-and that is because I was too afraid not to walk, since I know that all the balance issues get so much worse with inactivity. There were fireworks on Friday, and on Saturday, and I walked outside to have a look-but apart from that I was essentially motionless. I read, I watched programs that I had taped (months ago), and I allowed myself to recover from all the tests, doctors, and waiting. The waiting, ah, the waiting-I still have no patience, and if there is a patience gene I was born without that one, too. Grrr. Welcome to the NHS: hurry up and wait. And now it's been all over the news: the NHS has missed all its' targets, cancer patients are not being treated, and junior doctors are about to go out on strike. Just so you know: the theory behind the NHS is a good one. In practice, it sucks.

Sunday was Remembrance Day, and Wednesday was Armistice Day. There were two minutes of silence on both days to remember the war dead. I felt so awful. You would think that the world would have learned something from war-but no, there is no peace anywhere. The motto seems to be: let's all kill each other. Every time we turn around, someone else has been slaughtered. And here we are, supposed to be the most intelligent life on earth. Uh-seriously??

Yesterday it was "boobs on parade". I went to the hospital (first time this week. Hooray) to see Steve, my boob man (technically my second boob man, if you count Mr. T, the oncologist). We had a frank and open discussion about changing the expanders and inserting the more permanent silicone implants. He is against, because he is concerned about my health. I am for, since I want everything to look pretty (aren't I vain!!), and to be more functional. So he will do the surgery, but I am on his waiting list and probably won't be able to have the swap until March or April. Lots of women are having reconstruction-and that is a good thing, in my opinion. I may not have perfection, but at least I am no longer flat chested; actually, I am no longer concave. In that respect, life is pretty good.

I still sound somewhat frog-like...but my voice is slowly coming back to normal. So, if I am going to make any dirty phone calls, I'd better do it now, while I am still growling.

That brings you up to date-and I am now on my way to the gym. First time in such a long time, I have a training session, so I will try not to get too gung-ho and rupture something. At least I can do chest exercises without worrying about one of the expanders winding up under my armpit. Now that would be interesting!

I'm being so good that I will have to celebrate returning to the gym with a bag of Kettle Chips: a large bag of Kettle Chips. People keep telling me I need to eat-so that's what I am going to do!

An Existential Crisis: Just Call Me Kermit

I'm telling people to call me Kermit-then, when they do, I want to smack them. Go figure...

The entire hospital experience was an absolute nightmare from start to finish. After my speedy post of last week, I was driven to the hospital and then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. And then I waited. You get the picture: I waited. Bad enough to wait (a silent NHS rule: everybody waits. Preferably until they die, and then the waiting list gets shorter), but I had to wait in a room filled with people who were coughing and sneezing-without covering their noses and mouths, something that really, really winds me up. I grew up with better manners than that, and I'm sure you did, too.

I finally was taken into a small treatment room and told to change my clothes-and everything I had with me was put into a big green bag and placed in a locked cabinet. I then-guess what?-waited some more. Finally, I had to walk to the elevators, and a nurse, another patient and I went to the third floor surgery waiting room. What did I do there? You guessed it: I waited. I couldn't believe I had to walk that far, either - I felt like I was walking the Green Mile, and I said to the nurse (only half-joking, but she didn't get it anyway) that I felt like I was walking to my own execution.

I finally walked down a long corridor and into the ante-room to the operating theatre. I was then prepped for surgery. And the room was filled with people. I was already nervous, but the sight of about eight people crushing each other didn't help. I asked if one of them was the undertaker. Honestly, they took me seriously! That did not bode well for what was coming, I have to say.

I then asked to see the consultant surgeon, since his name was on my appointment letter. Now I understand why there was only his name, and he was a phantom: he came out of the operating room, very grumpy, snapped "why do you want to see me?"-he had the bedside manner of Attila the Hun. And I said, because I want to know who is doing this operation, and I want to know who to come after if it all goes wrong. If you were in my place, wouldn't you want to meet the person who is shoving a tube down your throat? He grunted, and walked away. What a charmer. And it transpired that he didn't do the surgery anyway: it was performed by a registrar (I know because I badgered the registrar to tell me the truth afterwards). Boy, do I hate being lied to!!

I woke up in recovery, and I felt like someone must have punched me in the face while I was sedated. I know that didn't happen, but my head was really hurting, and my jaw felt like it had been yanked out of my skull. And I felt like someone had used a flame thrower on my throat. I couldn't swallow, I was in such pain I could hardly breathe, and I had to wait nearly nine hours-left on a gurney, not even put in a bed-until I was finally wheeled into a room where I was supposed to be monitored overnight. I wasn't monitored, and when I asked for pain medication, the nurses tried to give me paracetamol-the UK's version of Tylenol, which was about as useful as a bag of candy (at least candy would have been pleasant, although I couldn't eat anything anyway).

To say that I was royally pissed off at the shabby treatment is probably the understatement of the year-perhaps the decade-these people are supposed to care about patients, and put the welfare of patients first, and I fully understand why the NHS is in such a terrible state: because it sucks.

I got back to North London after six pm on Friday, and I really felt like crap. I wasn't supposed to be talking at all for at least the entire weekend, but I had to communicate with the staff on Thursday and Friday-and how do you do that if you aren't able to talk? I kept telling them what I needed, and they kept telling me to shut up. In retrospect, it beggars belief.

I was texting friends on Saturday, and whispering into the phone. It was almost funny-if I hadn't been in so much pain, it would have been funny. And Saturday was Halloween, I wanted to wish everyone a Happy Halloween, to draw a line under yet another month of medical ickiness- and instead, I was in bed, feeling terrible. So Halloween was happening all around me, and I bloody missed it.

Halloween has become really huge in this country, and that has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It's fun to see all the trick or treaters (I call them Halloweenies), walking with their parents, some of whom are also in costume. But-they're all witches, or princesses, or fairies, and that's just the boys. I keep waiting for someone to be dressed like the walkers out of The Walking Dead, and trying to do the walk, too. Now that would be really creative. Or, someone with a chainsaw (a working one, obviously-otherwise where is all the fun?)-today's Halloweenie, tomorrow's serial killer.

You can tell I'm sleep deprived, can't you?

So, to bring you up to date: I have been at the hospital for the last three days. I saw Mr. Tan on Monday, and had a session of bloodletting (bloodletting first), and Tan and I discussed the merits of changing the expanders for permanent implants (I'm going to push hard for that to happen). Then yesterday I spent the entire day being magnetized (head banging MRIs) and irradiated (another scan), And, of course, most of the time was spent -you guessed it-waiting! Today I was back to see another doctor, whom I only see twice a year (this is because I have CVID, so everyone seems to think it is so fascinating. I feel like a bug under a microscope, but hey, I'm just a patient, who cares about a patient?).

I'm happy and relieved to say that I am nearly finished with all this stuff. I get all the results back in a couple of weeks, and I'm pretty certain that everything is normal-well, of course, "normal" being a relative term, since all the irradiation will probably give me cancer anyway.

And, unfortunately, it is probably for the best that nobody come anywhere near me if they ever want children. I don't even glow in the dark, so that is the end of the hope that I will save a fortune on electricity. Bummer.

As for my throat: it is still very sore, although I no longer feel like I was punched in the face during surgery. And my voice? I sound like a frog-a bullfrog-if I sounded like Kermit, at least you would be able to hear me. I don't speak, I rasp. I did ask if I would sound like Lauren Bacall after surgery-I always wanted a deep voice. The doctor just looked at me, pityingly. No, he said, you won't. Well, what a waste of my time, then!!

The only good thing is that I get to eat ice cream without feeling guilty...

Back in the saddle - and not a decent horse in sight

Since last time, I have been irradiated, magnetized, poked, prodded, and otherwise interfered with (medically speaking, of course). Every day I have been to a different clinic, specialist, test-it's enough to make my head spin. And-I'm not finished yet.

Last week was my birthday, and that was the one day I went on strike: no tests, no hospitals, nothing. I felt like I was on holiday...and it was great. I had breakfast in a local restaurant, did a little retail therapy, cooked a lovely meal, had some champagne-lovely. I even sat in the park and meditated, recharged, readied myself for - today. I will soon be on my way to have a tube shoved down my throat (I don't know why, but doctors seem to be fascinated by my throat. Very strange) to find out why I had three months with no voice. So off I will go, and for a couple of days afterwards I will probably be mute. Goody. I'm tired of explaining to the hospital people that CVID is hereditary. Do they still ask if I'm contagious? Where am I living, exactly? Of course they do. Grrr...

Last week I went to see Jersey Boys in the West End. I decided that I really haven't done anything special on my birthday since-well, since before the Gentamicin, and that was five and a half years ago. So I splurged, and swallowed hard (expensive? Oh, yeah), got the ticket and braved hordes of people and teeming rain and took myself to Piccadilly. And I enjoyed it. The American accents were dire, of course. In a word, they sucked - but I expected that, and for me, it was all about the music. And the musical numbers were superb. For a couple of hours I just listened to music and didn't think about anything medical.

Well, I had a birthday. And I am back in the saddle, as they say: time to start going out and doing things. Weekdays are tough, because I am not finished with all the hospital stuff yet-but in December everything eases off, and that is when I will take myself out and start doing things. I need to walk more, I need to do my exercises more-and I went to Queen Square on Monday and had to retake the platform test (the thing moves, and I am tethered so I don't fall off). I did really well with my eyes open, but failed the eyes closed test (no surprise there). Even with all the surgery, and the illness, and everything-I'm still improving. I have until February to do more, because I repeat the test in February.

I seem to have defied all expectations by not only improving, but by still being alive (and relatively healthy. Of course, if they keep scanning me, they will cause cancer, the idiots!).

The cougar is on the prowl (maybe. But I am shy, so - maybe not).

Irradiated up the wazoo-and beyond

Since I wrote last, I have had so many scans, MRIs, Xrays-and, of course, some bloodletting to keep things interesting-that I must be radioactive by now. In fact, I should be glowing in the dark-it would probably save me a fortune on electricity. But-no such luck. No glowing.

This all happens annually, so I actually get another year to get over all the radiation. It can't be good for anyone. And I have to say, if you want to ever have children, stay away from me for at least another few days. Just in case. What a way to cure the overpopulation!

I saw the lovely Mr. Tan. He was very supportive when I told him I left the Royal London and skipped over to the Royal Free. I also flashed my boobs-I thought the nurse who was there was going to have an aneurysm. But, of course, it was Mr. T who removed the two cancerous ones-and referred me to Steve-so I did ask him first if he wanted to see Steve's work (I'm so polite, it's disgusting). He was delighted with the results, and reminded me that it will take some time to heal completely. He said not to be discouraged, that I will look great when it is all done. I will also look old. When they bury me (not for another thirty years or so, hopefully), the only things that will be perky will be my boobs. Everything else is already heading south. I swear at age, but-I don't much like the alternative.

Now, Mr. T told me something that I thought was really, really interesting. I know that breast cancer can come back, so I asked him about that. He said that a great deal of research has been done about recurrence of breast cancer, and findings show that if it does return, it almost always goes to one of three places: the lungs, the bones or the liver. It rarely recurs in the breast, even in people who have had lumpectomies or single mastectomies (I had a double. I must be greedy). So there you are: something you can tell all your friends, and look really, really smart (even more so than usual).

I am having scans of all three areas, and I will have those every two years or so-and I will see Mr. T in six months, unless there is a problem (which, of course, there won't be). He then said I am looking very skinny. I said-thank you, but I'm not skinny. He said: yes, you are. Well, I'm not going to pick a fight with the man who removed cancer, am I? That would be bad manners. So I said thanks for everything, he gave me a hug, and I immediately went out and bought a blueberry muffin. Well, I'm skinny, right? So I hit the sugar-as you do. And I stuffed my face all the way home.

It has been that sort of week, and I did everything and saw everyone, and I am finally able to get online (remind me to throw this computer off the roof of a very tall building!). Next week is my birthday, and I might just treat myself. After all, I have survived a few very, very bad years. And I haven't really celebrated. It's time I do. I've been so focused on keeping alive, surviving, that I haven't enjoyed life. What is the point of trying so hard if there is no joy at the end of it? I could walk outside and get hit by a bus (nearly did that a couple of times, too). Or get struck by lightning (no, I haven't done that, if you were going to ask. Which I'm sure you weren't). Or get blown up by a terrorist bomb (this is London, after all. And that would be the world's shittiest luck, I can tell you).

I'm determined to start enjoying life, because I don't know when it is going to end. Live it up. Have a blueberry muffin. Kettle Chips. Chocolate. (not all at the same time. Ewww!).

As long as I'm still breathing, I refuse to give up. That is what I call obstinate (or foolhardy. Depends on your point of view!).  And-you'll hear from me more often, as long as I don't lose it and trash this computer (already a piece of crap, by the way!).

Just When You Think You're Safe....you get a nasty surprise

The black dog left as suddenly as he had arrived. I felt better on Monday evening, for no apparent reason. The dog probably went to bite someone else on the ass. Never mind: he was gone.Ish.

Yesterday I went along to Boots Opticians. Boots is a major pharmacy chain, now also in various US states-and the company has fingers in various pies, including opticians. Three years ago, I went for an eye exam-and discovered that I needed glasses. Ah, one of the joys of middle age: grey hair (my hair has been grey since I was in my twenties. I always colored it, though), lines and wrinkles, liver spots, cellulite, wobbly bits in danger of heading dangerously toward the floor-and, of course, CRS (can't remember shit, for those of you who can't remember shit). And your arms suddenly aren't long enough-or your nose isn't short enough-so you need a bit of optical help. Hence: Boots Opticians.

This is all a long winded way of saying that I had my eye exam-and what a disaster that was. Mrs. Chernick, who has been at this particular branch since-probably since the place was built-wanted my medical history, then wanted to know if I am contagious (no, I said, CVID isn't contagious. Dummy - I wanted to add, she's got all this in her notes from last time). Then she couldn't get the prescription right, the photos of the eyes were blank (oh, my-don't I have eyes? Shocker), and she was twitching and scurrying around, because to put everything right would have taken more time than she was prepared to spend. I paid for all this, too, which was very annoying. So she showed me the door, practically pushed me through it, and said she was going to write to my GP and have me referred to a specialist. And that was that.

Well-duh-I walked home, in the rain, and I stopped and began to cry. Of course, I felt like a total ass, crying in the street, but I was so upset it was unbelievable. Everything just suddenly got to me at that moment, and it all began with Mrs. Chernick, who wasn't terribly nice about the whole thing. I found myself wishing that someone would just run me over and put me out of my misery - how very unlike me! I cried myself back home, got inside, locked the door, and just sat (cold, wet from the rain, and highly pissed off, by the way), and cried, and had a first class pity party. If I was a drinker, I would have been completely plastered. But no, I just cried until I bored myself, and thought about what I had wished: to just quit, to give up, to stop all the treatments, sell everything (not that I have anything worth selling), and just go somewhere, anywhere, and live for as long as I could-which wouldn't be long, if I stopped the immunoglobulin and the antibiotics. So I decided: stop being such a jerk.

I haven't gone through so much just to quit now. I can be such a drama queen! I sat. For the entire day. And I decided that I wasn't going to let the likes of Mrs. Chernick to dictate the way I felt about myself and my life. If I quit now, everything I have been through will have been for nothing. That isn't the way I want to go out: a quitter. And things, I decided, will get better. This was just a glitch.

Now I realize something really important: I have to be very careful about disclosing anything about my health, unless it's to doctors, people who have a say in my medical treatment. Chernick almost had apoplexy, even though it was all right there in her notes from three years ago. Obviously she was worried that I have HIV- and nothing could be further from the truth. I try to be open about CVID, because it is hereditary, and not contagious (anyone can only develop it if I give birth to them. God forbid). But there is absolutely no point in saying anything to anyone unless there is a good reason to do so. And-it's sad, really, that there is such a prejudice against a condition that is caused by defective genes. But hey-this is the UK, and most people think that genes are the things you wear: like Levis. Can't really argue with stupidity and ignorance, can you?

Do I feel better after yesterday's upset? Yes-one day spent being upset at someone's ignorance is one day more than that person deserves. Am I going to keep schtum from now on? Huh-is the Pope Catholic? (that's a definite yes)

The Curious Case of the Exploding Expander

Last week was one of those ho-hum, meh, underwhelming weeks. At least, it started that way, but didn't end very well at all.

On Tuesday I had to go back to the Royal Free to have the registrar check the expander that has been giving me all this grief for weeks. She poked around my chest (that was weird), and decided that the expander has shifted to the right. How exciting, I thought: I will have one breast facing front and one facing back, if it keeps moving. I said that-but she wasn't amused. She was even less amused when she couldn't locate the port on the left side. I asked her where it could have gone. Did it do a runner? Was it going to be found somewhere near my left kidney? Ah, no-no sense of humor, I guess. And I wasn't very pleased, either. So we just left it, since I had to return and see the expert, the surgeon, on Thursday. Tuesday was, for me, a wasted journey.

On Wednesday I was due to go to the London to have my annual gastroscopy. Once a year I get one hosepipe shoved up my back end, and once a year I get a hosepipe shoved down the other end. This is all to see if there is anything major to worry about, since one of the problems with CVID is that it impacts everything to do with the digestive system (and is related to colon cancer). I was fasting, and on the way to the hospital, when I had the most unbelievable pain in the right side-I really thought the right expander was rupturing. It was so painful I could barely breathe. And-I was at the Royal London, so there wasn't anything I could do except wait it out and hope it would stop-or explode,whichever came first. After about twenty minutes the pain subsided. Finally. Nothing flew out of my chest, so I figured I would survive until the next day.

I waited for hours for the hosepipe; everyone was running extremely late. By the time I saw Sean (what a hero-he apologized for the severe delay, something that is unknown in the NHS!), I had fasted for nearly twenty four hours and my stomach was shaking hands with my backbone.

The test took about half an hour, some biopsies were taken-and I chose not to have sedation, because I figured I would be there forever if I said okay. So it hurt, but I was glad in the end. Nobody even offered me a glass of water. That is the Royal London for you-so I am glad that I went over to the Royal Free, where they are much more civilized. I'm keeping the gastro and neurology teams at the London, though. Sean and Dimples have known me for years, and I have every confidence in them. I don't sweat at the idea of going to see them, which I did with the immunology team.

Thursday I went to see my surgeon. Honestly, if I got paid for all the mileage I do each week, going from one hospital to another, I could go to the Bahamas for six months.

Steve had a poke around, said he is pleased with the expander-and that it hasn't ruptured, and has only moved slightly, so I shouldn't worry- yet. He inflated the left side by 50mls of saline, and wants to see me in six weeks. If the right side deflates in that time, we will decide what to do then. So that was that, and I was very relieved. Plus, I have cleavage. What a bonus.

Then I got hit by the black dog. It came out of nowhere and bit me right in the backside when I wasn't looking. I've been bitten before-so many times you would think my butt would be smaller. Too bad. And for two days I didn't really go anywhere, although I forced myself to walk. I had to walk. It was very unpleasant-but I knew that it would pass if I just hung out with it for a bit and then made myself move, take some action, walk, whatever.

Yesterday there was a Patients' Day at the Royal Free, and I went along and saw several people I knew: immunology staff, and immunology patients, too. We heard the latest research into CVID, the newest pumps for immunoglobulin delivery-and a talk about depression, which is one symptom of CVID (one of many). Gut problems, chest problems, depression-all these subjects were covered really well, and we had lunch, too. Even the coffee was good-and you all know what I think about British coffee. Except for Starbucks (and my own), you could use it to strip paint. So when I tasted the brew I was very pleasantly surprised. That in itself cheered me up.

Today I still have the remnants of the blues. We have rain-lots of rain, lots of wind, lots of cold-after a beautiful weekend, too. But when you know the reasons behind symptoms, they are easier to handle. One person out of every 50,000 is born with CVID. That translates to 20 people out of one million. Some idiots sniff and say, oh, that isn't so rare. I'm one of the twenty. Trust me when I say that yes, it is rare! And, like the Energizer bunny, I just keep going. I've come this far-I'm not ready to quit yet. I want to irritate people for at least another 30 years or so...

Groundhog Day:it all repeats, and repeats, and repeats...

I felt all week as if I've been in my own little version of the film Groundhog Day. There has been a "sameness" to every day in that I seem to be doing the same things over and over again, like a drone. It's been more than a little disconcerting.

After I posted last week, I went to see Dr. Dimples. I thought (based on what he told me two years ago) that this time he would discharge me from his clinic, since there is nothing else his team can do for me. So last year, he referred me back to Queen Square, and that whole scenario is one that you already know. But, wahoo (or words to that effect) I was quite mistaken.

I told him about Dr. Davies, and the repeating of the 2011 tests, and the fact that improvement was up to 58%-and he seemed really pleased-jovial, even. He is keeping me in the clinic until March, when we will probably retest again at Queen Square. He wants to keep note of my progress. So do I, in fact.

So that was a positive outcome. Unfortunately, there was a flip side: it rained. Heavily. I got caught in it, and it was terrible. I could hardly walk up the road, it rained so hard. The Brits call it "pissing down"-maybe it's crude, but so descriptive, and so very appropriate. And believe me, I waited to see Dimples and I was sitting in the clinic, cold, wet, peed off, and soaked to the skin. When my name was called, I didn't walk down the corridor-I sloshed. I left a water trail. By the time I finally got back to North London I was-still wet. It was definitely not fun. And on Wednesday it was just as bad. I rushed to walk (or, rather, stagger, which is all I can do in the rain) in the morning, and I just got in my door as the skies opened. I like rain. I like to watch it. I like to watch it when I am inside and warm and dry, and I don't have to go anywhere. And, anyway, my clothes were still wet from the day before. So I wasn't very cheerful on Wednesday.

On Thursday I went along to see Steve and have him check the offending expander. Sure enough, it was misbehaving; after only a week, that right side was already showing signs of sinking. I was sinking, too. I kept thinking that I might have to go through the whole procedure again.

We talked it over, and Steve decided to inflate that side again, and continue to inflate weekly if necessary. Eventually we might need to remove the port, and see if the expander keeps contracting. So I have one decent looking breast and one that is, to put it mildly, concave. Ick. If we remove the port and the thing keeps sinking, then we will need to replace both expanders with permanent silicone implants. At least I know what level of pain to expect. If that has to happen, I must remember to request regular visits to the bathroom. That will save me from catapulting myself off the bottom of the bed and nearly knocking myself unconscious in an effort to avoid using those odious bedpans!

Tomorrow marks six weeks since the surgery-and I am so happy that it is now, and not six weeks ago. I can only wait to see what happens when I go back to the clinic on Thursday.

I have started to make a conscious effort to change the way I do things. I take different routes to get to wherever I need to go. I even start the day differently. I've been trying to mix things up a little. I have had terrible trouble sleeping, because that right expander makes things very painful, so the pain keeps me awake at night. So does trying to move around to find a comfortable position. There is no comfortable position. Even breathing causes pain-but I think I will just have to deal with it. Or-I will just have to live with it.

I've started doing all my vestibular exercises again, even though we have had a lot of rain, and even though I've been a bit demoralized by the fact that I have had a major setback in the balance and vision areas. But I've had a setback. It was to be expected. I just need to understand that I will regain what levels I've lost. It'll take some time, and a whole lot of effort. But I've done it before, and I will do it again.

One thing I have been thinking a lot about this past week is the fact that I have been so busy trying to survive over the last five years that I forgot to enjoy life. And-I know I pulled the genetic short straw, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't enjoy whatever time I have left in front of me. I want to get to that truckstop in the sky (but not for many, many, many years) and be able to look back at my life and say that it was not just traumatic, but also filled with joy, good times, good people-and even if one person reads this blog and realizes that we just have to move forward, and never give up, no matter what the circumstances, and be happy anyway-I will have done something for someone.

As for that truckstop in the sky, they'd better have a huge stock of Kettle Chips. And Starbucks. Otherwise I'm not going.

Just when you think it's safe to go back into the water...

Murphy's Law reached up and bit me hard on the backside-and I didn't really expect it, either. Frankly, a shark would have been more interesting-and probably more entertaining. It has been a stressful two weeks since I last posted. Ugh.

I had a really bad time with balance and vision-really bad-I seem to have regressed a lot. I did expect it-in a way-because surgery was less than five weeks ago, so I don't know what I was thinking when I decided to do everything I had done before the surgery. What an oops that was. I'm cut from armpit to armpit, so I couldn't raise my arms, or lift anything of any consequence. And there was a lot of pain. So I spent a lot of time resting-which, of course, made the balance worse. Another oops moment.

Last Wednesday-exactly four weeks post-op- I had to go to Queen Square to see the physiotherapist. She was great-but couldn't believe I was actually there, since I was staggering all over the place. She also was amazed that I wasn't really depressed about the setback. So we talked about that, and she had me do a whole series of exercises. It turns out that, although I wasn't able to do any of the exercises with my eyes shut, I was better at the other ones than I was when I was tested in March. I can tell you how pleased I was to know that; it means that I am still improving, even though I think, on many occasions, that I am moving backwards rather than forwards. Time to be cheerful (ish).

But-Thursday was about as welcome as a shark attack. I went along for my fortnightly immunoglobulin infusions, and that was okay, except that my usual nurse was on holiday, so someone else handled it-and started an hour late. Bummer. And then I went to see Steve over at the surgery clinic. And was I swearing at Murphy and his bloody law by this time, or wasn't I? The reason for this is: the whole side of the expander on the right side has collapsed. There is a crater where, as far as I can determine, there should not be a crater. So I waited over an hour-again-this being the NHS, I was glad it was only one hour, not three or four-and Steve looked and didn't seem very happy.

That was on Thursday, and Steve took a syringe and inflated the expander (well, yes, he did ask me first, and I said, hell, yes, I'm so freaked out about all this, did I do something wrong?). He stuck a needle into the port and I said I wish he had been the one to shove the needle into the port on my chest that morning, because he didn't hurt me at all. Everything inflated-and I actually had cleavage (or, something resembling cleavage). I also talked all the way through the consultation-it was either talk or burst into tears, so I chose to talk instead.

I go on Thursday to have him examine me again-and the expander is already beginning to sag in the middle. We will need to decide whether to remove it and insert another expander or just insert a permanent implant. My view: a permanent implant. Less trouble. Save my voice, too.

Today I will see Dr. Dimples for the last time. It's sad, I guess, because I have been his patient since just after the gentamicin debacle. But there is nothing more he or his colleagues can do for me. It is up to me, now-up to me with the able assistance of the experienced people at Queen Square.

Remember when I first said (somewhere around a hundred posts ago) that you should always talk to the organ grinder and not the monkey? Not that Dimples is a monkey-but he is the one who sent me to the experts, and Dr. Davies and my two vestibular physiotherapists said that I have more improvements to come, but I must continue to work hard, and work hard daily, no goofing off. Even when I get as far as I can go, I need to work every day, because if I don't, the brain just stops working for me.

I've come a long way-sure, I've got a long way ahead of me, but now I'm looking at it as a major challenge, and I've been able to detach from the anger I felt against the injustice and the four cripplers. It must really suck to be them.

I can report that I am at an internet cafe, waiting for my final appointment with Dimples before he discharges me from his clinic (one more down, I'm halfway out the door of the crappy old Royal London). I walked furtively up the road, just in case I smelled sewage and ran straight into the wife beating, child abusing, dog kicking pile of faecal matter called Bucky Buckland. One never knows what abuse I would get if I ran into him-preferably when I'm in a fast moving vehicle, of course.

I'm really, really lucky that the pile of shite discharged me before the surgery-my ego aside, I was able to quickly move over to the Royal Free, and all treatment (except gastro, which I elected to keep at the London) is now under one roof. It's so much better-and I am so much happier.

Being treated like a human being by people who have so much more experience, expertise, capability, and kindness-it makes an incredible difference. I'm not worried about someone killing me off now. Although, there is always Murphy's Law....

Another fine mess...

Last Wednesday night I was so fed up with strip washing that I decided I just had to take a shower-and wash my hair. I know it was forbidden until Thursday, when the stitches would be removed and the dressing changed-but I just couldn't wait another day.

Strip washing: using a bowl, soap and a washcloth-just doesn't do it for me. It is right up there with my least favorite hospital things-like the food (recycled toxic waste, probably. Perhaps not even recycled), having a cannula shoved in my arm every day for ten days because they kept breaking my veins (oh, joy), and, of course, bedpans. Bedpans have to be at least number 2 on my hospital shit list, right after cannulation. I'm not into pain. Or wet. No thank you.

So I got into the shower, and stood with my back to the shower head, thinking that I could tilt my head back and wash my hair without getting the dressings wet. Er...wrong. I got everything soaked. But I'll tell you, I felt great. I felt human again. Little things-like showers, and feeling really clean-they do make a difference. I cheered up immediately. Only-I got out of the shower and held a towel to the dressings-no place else, just the dressings. You would have laughed. But the things stayed in place (more or less), and I went to the Royal Free on Thursday and had my infusions, then the dressings clinic, where I had the sutures and the dressings removed. I now need to return in two weeks, because that is when the team will begin to inject the ports with saline, stretching the expanders and the skin. Right now I have two very strange looking lumps on my chest; the doc on Thursday said that by Christmas everything should look very, very different. I hope so! I sure hope it will be worth all the pain. I must be nuts to have even considered this operation. But-too late!

When I got back from the hospital I noticed a letter from Barts and the London compliance department. I already knew what was in it (I must be psychic. Or I just know the hospital trust). I was told that Matt Buckland was within his rights to discharge me from the clinic, and that he was very polite to his legal team and the compliance team. Well, obviously. He was bullying, nasty, threatening and manipulative toward me, threatening to have me barred from the hospital altogether-so he is not only a liar but a complete asshole. And, funnily enough, I was neither surprised nor upset.

Buckland is going to be very compliant with his masters; they pay him (an exorbitant amount of money, that is for sure), so he has to be nice. In fact, if his masters tell him to stand in front of them, drop his pants and take a few for the team, you can bet that is what he will do. Anything for his paycheck. The other three will do the same (what a revolting thought THAT is!!).

Presumably the arrogant Matt "Bucky" Buckland then goes home, beats his wife, beats the crap out of his children, and then kicks the dog. If he has a dog, I hope the animal bites him. Hard. And I don't need to say where-but who knows if he even has one? Perhaps the children are someone else's.

I think I've had a lot of time to really consider all this, and to ask myself if the cripplers (Buckland, Longhurst, not-so Bright and Grigoriadou) are really worth my time. My time is valuable. My life is valuable- not to them, obviously, but to me-and to the people who care about me. And the answer has to be that they aren't worth squat. However, I do stand my ground when it comes to outing all four of them, because these are people who should not be practicing medicine. So I have the time, now that the surgery is over and I am finally starting to recover, to do a video, to send links to this blog and the video to everyone I know, and to ask everyone to pass the links on to all their friends, their facebook friends, their Twitter friends (oh, someone tell me how this twitter thing works!).

I've succeeded in embarrassing the hell out of the four cripplers, and that is a good start. They are on everyone's radar. If I can get other people to step up and do some complaining, then the hospital will have no choice but to take some action. And it isn't just the cripplers here at Bart's and the London. They are the only ones I know, but there are so many more - everywhere. Social media is a great platform to expose all those doctors who should be cleaning public toilets, not putting patients' lives at risk.

It would be so wonderful if someone, somewhere contacted me to let me know that a class action suit can be fought on behalf of gentamicin patients in this country; I know it happens in the U.S., but apparently not here. Time for gentamicin to be taken off the market.

Well, this is the first day I have not taken any painkillers, so I'm clearly getting better. It's time for the Kettle Chips...

Sliced and diced, bruised, battered, swollen, cut to bits-but still kicking

Anyone who tells you that reconstructive surgery isn't horribly painful is either lying or has no nerve endings. Bite them. Twice. And if you have a dog, get your dog to bite them, too. Painful? Ewww!!

I had one day before admission when the transport people didn't show up at all, and I  had to get a minicab to the hospital so I could have my antibiotics. That was really annoying. But ERS, the hospital transport people, sent three ambulances on Saturday to collect me and take me to be admitted. Talk about overkill! ERS, by the way, is a waste management company. Somehow they got the seven year contract to take over all the patient transport for all the London hospitals. Waste management. Huh. It shows. They are completely clueless when it comes to dealing with people.

So I got up to the ward at the time I was told to be there, and discovered that there were no beds. This was on the Saturday before surgery. Everyone was twitching, flying around trying to sort the whole thing out, and finally I was put on an orthopedic ward, with the hope of moving me to the plastic surgery ward. I wondered what happened to the person they turfed out of the bed on orthopedics. Did they shove him out the window? Well...my mind works in strange ways, especially when I know I am facing surgery. I am most definitely not into pain, and I kept asking myself if I really, really wanted to do this. I figured I had until Wednesday morning to run for the exit.

I had visits from the plastic surgery registrars, checking me out, telling me not to be worried. Seriously? Me, not worry? But I tried to stay calm, and did a lot of mindfulness minutes to remind myself why I was doing this in the first place: I don't want to see my chest in the mirror, see ribs, and scars, and remember that I could have easily died from breast cancer. Who wants that constant reminder? Cancer isn't something anyone can forget easily, even with reconstructive surgery. We know that it can always come back to bite us in the ass. And it does that, so I've heard. Repeatedly.

I got through the next few days without incident. My nurse came up from Immunology to insert a gripper needle into the PortaCath I have in my chest. This was so that people would stop stabbing (and breaking) my veins with a cannula every five minutes. And I felt more at ease, and I got my hit of immunoglobulin on the Tuesday, the day before the surgery. Oh joy: the guidelines stated that I had to have very slow infusions, even though I have been doing them for a year by PortaCath. That was annoying; it took seven hours, when it really should only take three. Good thing I had a book.

On Wednesday morning, I was informed that I was first on the list, and Steve came and took out a Sharpie and drew all over my chest. His team of registrars was there, and he was explaining exactly what he was going to do. So I was Sharpie'd - first time ever. They all left, and at 9am I was taken to the theatre. Now-they no longer do premeds, so I was left thinking that even though the side rails were up, I could still jump over them, sprint (or stagger) back to my room, get dressed and go home. It did occur to me. Frequently.

As the orderly pushed the bed down the operating room corridor, I noticed that there were a lot of plastic sheets covering one side of the hallway. Then I heard it: the sound of an electric saw. And it was loud. So I sat up, bolt upright, and said "Oh my, is someone sawing off someone's leg?". Steve and the team were standing there, heard me, started to laugh, and then disappeared as the orderly said (trying to stifle a laugh) that workmen were building new operating theatres. Nobody was sawing anyone. So I said I hoped they weren't going to start tossing out body parts until I was safely inside the theatre. My nurse said I am great for comic relief on the ward, and I said that as soon as I come around from the anesthesia I will be checking for my kidneys.

Just as I was about to fall asleep, someone (I still don't know the identity of the offending party) said that my kidneys would be the least of my worries. Too late to run. I was out cold.

It was all quite horrible. I came around in recovery, was returned to my room, and given drugs. Morphine, I kept saying, morphine! I got morphine for the next day or so, then I was switched to Oramorph, a morphine derivative that can be taken by mouth. Plus paracetamol (The UK equivalent of Tylenol) and Tramadol, a very mild painkiller. And I kept asking for water.

That first day-and night-I drank so much water I'm surprised I have any kidneys left at all. And, as we know, what goes in must eventually come out. I wasn't allowed out of bed, so I was given a bedpan. Constantly. All night. It drove the nursing assistant crazy; she didn't want to keep coming and bringing a bedpan every twenty minutes, and clearly wasn't pleased. If she'd been a nurse, I would have had a nickname for her: Nurse Ratched.

Thursday night I had enough of the bedpan thing. Really, I think the person who invented the bedpan must have been a misogynist-probably the same person who invented the speculum.

I crept down to the bottom of the bed, thinking that I would climb out and go to the bathroom. This is after a dose of Oramorph, so I think I can be forgiven for such a stupid act. I ended up catapulting myself off the bed and fell ass over teakettle into a big heap on the floor. I could not use my arms, because all the muscles had been cut. So I lay there, swearing, and thinking I should ring for the nurse, but I would get a lecture, and I didn't want a lecture. All I wanted was the bathroom. So I was finally able to hoist myself back onto the bed, and I knocked over the water jug-which was full. Water all over the bed, all over me, all over. Period. I ended up calling for the nurse, but I only said I'd knocked over the water jug. That was it: change of sheets, change of bedclothes, looks of disgust (obviously they thought I'd had a different kind of accident. Please. My bladder isn't that big). And I said nothing to anyone about my excursion, although the wound started to bleed and the dressing had to be changed the next day. Lesson learned.

I was pretty much confined to bed-with side rails firmly up-until Saturday, when one of the registrars came to see me and I said I have to be allowed up to go to the loo. I reminded him that bedpans don't always work well, and that nobody bothers to provide any paper, so I am in danger of developing something that closely resembles nappy rash. That same afternoon I was taken to the loo by one of the nurses, and I can't tell you how great it felt to be out of bed, however briefly.

The best thing about being in the hospital was - leaving the hospital. I have to comment on the food, which really looked like someone else had eaten it first. On one tray someone had put what was supposed to be an apple pie. It was drowned in custard-and the custard was congealed. Actually, it looked like a bowl of pus. Perhaps it was, who knows?

I got out on Wednesday, and I walked through my door at 3:30 Wednesday afternoon. I could not wait. Even the ERS transport geniuses drove me to the wrong address, so that speaks volumes about their competence (or lack thereof). The first thing I did was make a big mug of decent coffee. Then I just went to bed. Didn't unpack. Just went to bed.

This is the first time since I got back on Wednesday that I haven't been really, really sick: too sick to walk, although I did try, and too sick to do much of anything. I'm afraid to move too quickly for fear that one of the implants will move from one side of my chest to the other. Silly, I know, but you should see these alient growths on my chest. There is a huge amount of swelling, and still a lot of pain, but I actually have-cleavage. Cleavage! Amazing. It all looks really strange, but I will have dressings changed and sutures removed at the end of the week, so I will see what Steve says I can and can't do. It isn't even two weeks since surgery, so I guess vacuuming and lifting things are still out of the question. Awww....

I'll stop for now, but there is so much more that I feel like I can get back on the blog tomorrow and tell you the rest of it. I'm not writing a book-at least, not yet.

And what am I going to do now? I'm going to reward myself for these last few weeks of pain by taking the long trek to-Dunkin Donuts!

Munchkins anyone?