I was too smug-so Murphy's Law came into play, reached up and bit me right in the ass. This is what happens when I get too complacent-and a bite in the ass from Mr. Murphy is no fun at all. Promise.
After the last time I posted, I decided to take myself to see a comedy. I was already feeling something noxious coming on: sore throat, swollen glands, balance down the toilet-so I went to see Spy. It was just what I needed-I spent a couple of hours laughing, and when I left I felt better. Until, that is, that evening.
My sore throat was so bad that I could barely swallow, and I lost my voice. So, of course, I waited to see if it would get better on its own. And-it got worse. I finally gave in and went to see my GP, who announced that I either had strep throat or glandular fever. That is what I call covering all the bases. And I knew I had to go to the hospital for my infusions on Monday, so I just drank a lot of ginger tea, ate noodles until I thought I was going to turn into one, and saw one of the doctors while I was infusing. Two swabs were taken-and the results won't be back until Friday. So I am whispering until I know what comes next. Bah. I can't even swear at anyone; nobody takes anyone seriously when they whisper a four-letter word, do they? I'll make up for it when I get my voice back.
It's been a tough couple of weeks, but I'm glad I am able to see the keyboard and get back online. It was definitely a case of life going tits up (there's that word again!), pear-shaped, sideways-and a few other neat expressions to describe everything going wrong (including Murphy's Law!). No more complacence for me (until next time).
There is a lovely expression to describe the past two weeks. The Brits say everything has gone "down the crapper". When I questioned the origin (I'm such an anorak. Inquiring minds need to know these things), I was told that the flushing toilet was invented by Sir Thomas Crapper-so when everything goes wrong, that is what "they" say. And "they" seem to be the residents of-where else?- Essex!!! So when I went to the trusted Google, I read that Thomas Crapper wasn't entitled to call himself "Sir" because he wasn't a knight. And he also never invented anything connected with any toilet, flushing or otherwise. He was a plumber, though. But people started to call it the crapper anyway (some time around World War I).
Well, of course the people from Essex would call it the crapper. They probably aren't able to spell toilet, let alone know what it is used for. I did live there for a few months, and I noticed that they also have rotten aim. Enough said. Fortunately I was only there for about ten months, so no lasting damage was done. I crossed from Essex into London and could feel my IQ go up by about 150 points. I was smart enough to leave when I did-and, as I said, there seems to be no lasting damage. Except, possibly, the occasional drooling.
Wednesday 17 June 2015
Friday 5 June 2015
Torpedo Tits
Before the moderator has an aneurysm, let me reassure you that there is a species of bird in this country known as the tit. There are blue tits (very cute) and great tits, and I don't know how many other tits-but birdwatchers everywhere are very fond of looking for any kind of tits. What can I say?
Tits abound.
Of course I mention this because I went to see the surgeon last Thursday-and we discussed the other kind of tit-probably the one that had you all smiling (either that, or choking on your muesli). My reconstruction is looming, and there were a few questions I needed to ask Steve. I also cracked the jokes about his patient, double D-and how I would a) never see my feet again, and b) I would have no balance whatsoever and probably spend most of my life on the floor, on my nose, and that would be decidedly unpleasant. Steve's registrar had to turn away to keep from laughing-and Steve, to his credit, thought that was hilarious. That's good, of course. The man will have my life-and my chest-in his hands (literally, too), so he must have at least a little bit of a sense of humor. Who wants a grump?
Whatever. I have to put those jokes to rest now, since repeating them would be a bit old. But they did work (at least a little), so I feel more at ease with my surgeon. The whole ordeal will be a biggie, and nothing (certainly in my case) is ever straightforward. Part of me feels a lot of dread-but the other part of me is looking forward to eventually looking in the mirror and finding something other than ribs and a huge scar. I'm probably being vain-but hey, who gives a crap? It's my body after all.
That is a neat segue into the whole body image minefield. I spent the rest of the week doing my doctor thing, and taking the time to go and do some fun things: I went to the movies, I went to the Barbican with my friend Daniela (it was her birthday, so we celebrated). I also went to Daniela for acupuncture yesterday, so I am feeling a bit better, although I seem to have yet another infection.
And what about the body image minefield? Well, as you regular readers know, Matt (my immunologist) insists that I am too thin, and that I must be anorexic. Obviously he has never seen me eat. And I would love to meet his wife; she is probably so thin that when she turns sideways, she disappears. Perhaps he likes his patients to be big. And that has caused a myriad of problems. I'm not skinny-or anorexic-or too thin. I lost a huge amount of weight after the cancer surgery, but I have put a lot back on-and I feel better when I am a little bit thinner than I was before. I have less joint pain and more energy. And they are making a huge deal out of nothing. It's annoying.
Wouldn't it be fantastic if people would just leave us to be exactly as we are-instead of judging us, trying to change us, trying to manipulate us, and then telling us that it is all for our own good? I think that is one of the biggest problems that women (especially women) face today: we are told by advertisers, by friends, by doctors, by everyone that we are not okay as we are. So we spend millions on plastic surgery, and we apply make up that is so thick it looks like we used a trowel (not to mention any names. Except Joan Collins). We are lifted and tucked to the point where we are unrecognizeable (think the late Joan Rivers, who looked so much better before all that surgery).
People suffer from eating disorders from as young as ten in this country. And children are committing suicide because they are being bullied by their "peers". I'm certain that this happens everywhere, not just here. There seems to be no end in sight.
When it comes to drawing the genetic short straw, I am something of an expert. I'm pretty much an expert in the field of body image, too. I started going grey when I was in my teens-and if I had pulled out every grey hair I would have been bald. I went blonde, auburn, brown, black (that was a big mistake. I looked like Morticia. If I'd stood still long enough, someone would have mistaken me for a corpse and buried me). I went red-I did have some fun as a redhead, but after awhile I got fed up with having to color my hair every six weeks. Ten on the naff scale.
So now I am a mixture of grey and white, with a bit of brown thrown in to confuse everyone. And I don't listen to anyone who says I "should" color my hair. They're not saying it for me; they're saying it for themselves. We need to stop listening to everyone else (especially the advertising community-because they're only interested in grabbing our money) and start listening to ourselves. Guys (and girls)-we are absolutely fine just as we are. If you think you are too fat and that it's very unhealthy, get some help to lose weight (yes, sorry but it is really that simple). Get help. If you think you are "too" anything-too big, too small, too short, too tall-whatever-accept the way you are. If you can't-or won't-do that, get some professional help. Don't waste your money on diets, surgery, self-help books (I know about that last one, believe me!!).
So there you are. It's been really, really difficult for me to accept the fact that I won't have the kind of life I had before the gentamicin-but I've had to accept it, and I am still fighting to get back as much as I can. Not easy. I need to accept a lot of things-life isn't perfect. And life isn't fair (remember the cornerstones of life?).
So there you go. I should have been a therapist. Or a "life coach". What the hell, I am a life coach! And an agony aunt. And a survivor.
So that will be a hundred dollars, please. Or a case of Kettle Chips (large size) and a few Starbucks cappuccinos. How easy to please am I!!
Tits abound.
Of course I mention this because I went to see the surgeon last Thursday-and we discussed the other kind of tit-probably the one that had you all smiling (either that, or choking on your muesli). My reconstruction is looming, and there were a few questions I needed to ask Steve. I also cracked the jokes about his patient, double D-and how I would a) never see my feet again, and b) I would have no balance whatsoever and probably spend most of my life on the floor, on my nose, and that would be decidedly unpleasant. Steve's registrar had to turn away to keep from laughing-and Steve, to his credit, thought that was hilarious. That's good, of course. The man will have my life-and my chest-in his hands (literally, too), so he must have at least a little bit of a sense of humor. Who wants a grump?
Whatever. I have to put those jokes to rest now, since repeating them would be a bit old. But they did work (at least a little), so I feel more at ease with my surgeon. The whole ordeal will be a biggie, and nothing (certainly in my case) is ever straightforward. Part of me feels a lot of dread-but the other part of me is looking forward to eventually looking in the mirror and finding something other than ribs and a huge scar. I'm probably being vain-but hey, who gives a crap? It's my body after all.
That is a neat segue into the whole body image minefield. I spent the rest of the week doing my doctor thing, and taking the time to go and do some fun things: I went to the movies, I went to the Barbican with my friend Daniela (it was her birthday, so we celebrated). I also went to Daniela for acupuncture yesterday, so I am feeling a bit better, although I seem to have yet another infection.
And what about the body image minefield? Well, as you regular readers know, Matt (my immunologist) insists that I am too thin, and that I must be anorexic. Obviously he has never seen me eat. And I would love to meet his wife; she is probably so thin that when she turns sideways, she disappears. Perhaps he likes his patients to be big. And that has caused a myriad of problems. I'm not skinny-or anorexic-or too thin. I lost a huge amount of weight after the cancer surgery, but I have put a lot back on-and I feel better when I am a little bit thinner than I was before. I have less joint pain and more energy. And they are making a huge deal out of nothing. It's annoying.
Wouldn't it be fantastic if people would just leave us to be exactly as we are-instead of judging us, trying to change us, trying to manipulate us, and then telling us that it is all for our own good? I think that is one of the biggest problems that women (especially women) face today: we are told by advertisers, by friends, by doctors, by everyone that we are not okay as we are. So we spend millions on plastic surgery, and we apply make up that is so thick it looks like we used a trowel (not to mention any names. Except Joan Collins). We are lifted and tucked to the point where we are unrecognizeable (think the late Joan Rivers, who looked so much better before all that surgery).
People suffer from eating disorders from as young as ten in this country. And children are committing suicide because they are being bullied by their "peers". I'm certain that this happens everywhere, not just here. There seems to be no end in sight.
When it comes to drawing the genetic short straw, I am something of an expert. I'm pretty much an expert in the field of body image, too. I started going grey when I was in my teens-and if I had pulled out every grey hair I would have been bald. I went blonde, auburn, brown, black (that was a big mistake. I looked like Morticia. If I'd stood still long enough, someone would have mistaken me for a corpse and buried me). I went red-I did have some fun as a redhead, but after awhile I got fed up with having to color my hair every six weeks. Ten on the naff scale.
So now I am a mixture of grey and white, with a bit of brown thrown in to confuse everyone. And I don't listen to anyone who says I "should" color my hair. They're not saying it for me; they're saying it for themselves. We need to stop listening to everyone else (especially the advertising community-because they're only interested in grabbing our money) and start listening to ourselves. Guys (and girls)-we are absolutely fine just as we are. If you think you are too fat and that it's very unhealthy, get some help to lose weight (yes, sorry but it is really that simple). Get help. If you think you are "too" anything-too big, too small, too short, too tall-whatever-accept the way you are. If you can't-or won't-do that, get some professional help. Don't waste your money on diets, surgery, self-help books (I know about that last one, believe me!!).
So there you are. It's been really, really difficult for me to accept the fact that I won't have the kind of life I had before the gentamicin-but I've had to accept it, and I am still fighting to get back as much as I can. Not easy. I need to accept a lot of things-life isn't perfect. And life isn't fair (remember the cornerstones of life?).
So there you go. I should have been a therapist. Or a "life coach". What the hell, I am a life coach! And an agony aunt. And a survivor.
So that will be a hundred dollars, please. Or a case of Kettle Chips (large size) and a few Starbucks cappuccinos. How easy to please am I!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)