Organ Grinder-1 / Monkey-0 ---Beware the squawking parrot

Still not dead. Not even close. Well-maybe close, but I won't know for sure for another two weeks. Talk about doctors wanting to make a patient suffer over Christmas!

After my last post, I was cheered immensely by the fact that the Ombudsman ruled in my favor. So those imbeciles from Mulalley were forced to come to do the final two minutes (if that) of shoddy work, and then I was rid of them. They arrived, po-faced, knowing that they'd lost the battle. And I was so happy to receive the letter from the Ombudsman that I was skipping all over the flat, punching the air in victory. Now I can get a new computer. Hooray. That is what happens when you persevere, don't allow people to fob you off, or patronize you-and keep fighting until you find the organ grinder. Screw the monkey.

Well, before I could even post my victory, the fertilizer hit the fan, and in a big way. I discovered a lump just under my right eye, showed my GP, who decided that I've got a basal cell carcinoma. She referred me to the hospital, but I was given an appointment in-March, would you believe! But I had to see Steve (the boob and nipple man) anyway, showed him the lump, and he decided that he would get someone on his team to remove it and do a biopsy, just in case. And he jumped on it, so three weeks ago I had the surgery.

This was performed in a little surgery area in the clinic, so I didn't need to go through the performance of going to the big surgery area. Mr. Ali presided. I looked at him, and - believe me, I was already in a state of sheer terror - I asked him if he's done this before. On humans. Live ones. He just looked at me. The nurses, both of whom had known me for some time, started to laugh. Then I said (just to add insult to injury), please remember that you are very close to my eye. I'm very fond of my eye. So don't sneeze. Or cough. And I hope you've got steady hands.

He still didn't crack a smile. But he did (finally) tell me not to worry, that everything will be fine. He proceeded to stick a needle in my face-a needle that, from a very close view, looked like it was about eight inches long. And it hurt like hell. I'm sure he was getting his own back for everything I'd said before. In less that half an hour, he was sewing me up. He said that he wasn't sure he'd got the whole thing out, but the biopsy would show whether I would need further surgery. He gave me some instructions: keep the area dry, keep the dressing on, blah, blah, blah-the usual stuff. And I couldn't resist being funny. Can I ever?

I said that perhaps I should wear an eye patch. I've already got the single crutch, then all I would need is the parrot. And that was enough to send both nurses into spasms of laughter. They got it, but he didn't. No sense of humor-either that, or he wasn't a fan of literature. Oh, please: eye patch? Crutch? Parrot? Long John Silver? Duh?? I just shook my head and left.

I got back and I was no longer numb. I also was developing a swollen right side of my face, and a huge shiner. I looked like someone had punched me right in the face. I felt like I'd been hit head on by a bus (I had to use my imagination there. But you know what I mean). I took old pain pills I'd had since the mastectomy-so you know how often I take pain meds: once every three and a half years. And I cried for more than a week. I only went out to go to all the appointments - mostly I hid, feeling immensely sorry for myself.

You know how, if you have an obvious injury or impairment, you go outside and people stare? They don't offer any assistance if you even look like you need it. They just come close and stare. I was already in pain. Now I was in pain and pissed off. So I avoided going anywhere until the swelling subsided.

All last week-every day, up until the Friday before Christmas-I had hospital appointments. I spent Christmas recovering from four months spent going to various hospitals every single day. I can tell you, it is very wearing on the body-and the psyche. When I told my friend the parrot story, he found it so hilarious that he started calling me Long Jane Silver (I know-tacky, but I found it funny. I'm amazed that I found anything funny). So I now sign off my texts with "beware the squawking parrot". So at least I cheer up my friend and his partner, both of whom are very unwell. I said that my aim is to serve-I'm so full of crap...

So here we are, it's the end of a very bad year for just about everyone I know-and especially for me-and I'm glad to see the back of 2016. I have a full week of appointments in January (why don't I just move in?), and then more hospital appointments but with some space between them. From February onward, I can take a breath. I hope. Every time I think that, something else happens!

Have I made any resolutions? Huh. If you're like me, you break them before the first week of January. So I'm thinking-I just won't make any. I don't want to bring the baggage of 2016 with me into a new year. So maybe that is a resolution-but can I keep it?

I heard the news about George Michael dying on Christmas Day-alone, aged 53, and I realized that I have spent the last few weeks in more than a state of existential dilemma. I've been depressed. Every time I seem to get ahead, I end up a few steps behind. First George Michael, then Carrie Fisher, then Debbie Reynolds. Sad, but it shows that all the money and fame -and talent- won't buy longevity. You really can't take it with you. I felt sad, but I also was able to yank myself out of the depression. Existential crisis my New York Presbyterian ass. It was depression, and it took me longer to get out of it than it should have taken. Blech.

Monkeys, organ grinders, squawking parrots-whatever, I'm back. I just keep fighting back. Knock me down and I get up again. Eventually. So my resolution-if I have one-is to leave all the shit from 2016 in 2016, and start 2017 with a clean slate. I even checked last week to see if it would be a huge palaver to drop my married name and revert to my maiden name-something I've wanted to do since before I even filed for a divorce (an embarrassing number of years ago). People nearly had an aneurysm when I mentioned this. I talked to a lawyer friend (yeah, I know what I said about lawyers, but sometimes they can be useful. Rarely, but sometimes) who said that it would be more stress and aggravation than it's worth, so just use my maiden name for social purposes. Legally I will stick to the married name. I feel schizophrenic, name-wise. Perhaps I will just use my first name, like Madonna and Adele, and-whoever. That way I won't get confused.

So, I wish everyone a very happy and healthy 2017. Dump the baggage. Start from where you are. Leave the past in the past, where it belongs. That'll be fifty pounds. Cash.

Return of the Anti-Christ

No, I'm not talking about Captain Asswipe, the new resident of the White House. I'm talking about Dr. Dickhead, aka Goofy, Tombstone Teeth, Matthew "Bucky Beaver" Buckland. Just when I thought I was safe...no such luck.

I've been at one hospital or another nearly every day for the last three months. I've been so filled with radiation I'm probably going to render everyone in my path completely sterile (that should cure overpopulation)-and I should be glowing in the dark by now (no such luck. I tried).

I've had so many MRIs that I'm surprised I haven't been attracting every paper clip, stapler, and fax machine. I have had a really nice, permanent headache though-all the headbanging. My last MRI was on Thursday evening-and I must admit that, since the tech was kind enough to put music through the headphones, there was a lot of singing and toe tapping at the beginning (until they asked me to stop). But who doesn't sing along to Al Green?

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the clinic and waiting to see the doctor (90% of being a patient is waiting. And more waiting), when I looked up and I saw what I thought was a sickening apparition: was that the Bucky, the "doctor" who throws temper tantrums, who has severe emotional problems, bullies and threatens his patients, probably beats his children, abuses his wife, kicks the dog? Was that the incompetent pile of crap I saw at the reception desk? Before I could throw up, he had turned and gone. I decided that it couldn't possibly be the case, because what hospital other than the Royal London would want him?

Ah, good grief. On Thursday I went for my infusions, and I just had this feeling of unease. Actually, I had this feeling of severe nausea. So I asked the nurse if there were any new consultants. And she said-yes, there is one who works at Great Ormond Street (children's hospital-just the perfect place for someone who abuses his patients and can't control his temper, who is petulant and threatening to anyone who stands up to him. A children's hospital!).

Oh, really. She said his name is Matt. I just looked at her and said: Matt Buckland! She said that's right. And I groaned and said "Oh, CRAP!!!". Oh, you know him? Oh, yes, sadly I do. And then she left the room (I know I2m not using quotation marks. I'm a lazy typist).

My consultant came in to say hello and check up on me, talk about all the upcoming appointments, and then casually asked if anyone had told me that Bucky was working at the Royal Free. I just said "OH CRAP" again-not as loud this time. Apparently Bucky has left the Royal London (oh, I do hope that he was terribly embarrassed by this blog-which he tried to block last year, but without success) and is working for two days harming children at the Great Ormond Street Hospital-and abusing patients at the Royal Free for the other three days. I asked my doc how I'm supposed to deal with this; she said just say hello if I see him in the corridor.

Hello? I'd much rather smack him with my elbow crutch, knock him down, kick him in the shins (really, I'd rather kick him someplace higher-but who knows if he has any or not?), punch him in the face and ask him if he's still killing and crippling patients. But-that is just a fantasy. I must admit that kicking him in the nuts would make my day.

I got home and thought about the fact that this nutter is now at my hospital-but it occurred to me that if he hadn't gotten even for the things I wrote I would have procrastinated leaving the Royal London for another few months. I wanted to go, but I was going to wait until after surgery. Bucky really did me a favor-two favors, actually. He forced my hand, sent me to a better hospital and a much, much better consultant (and team), and I have been healthier at the Royal Free than I ever was at the London. Add to that the fact that my immunology consultant was so thorough that she sent me to several other consultants, all of whom ordered the London tests redone, and all of whom told me that the results of the London tests (and consultants) were wrong. So I'm now at a place where I'm no longer lied to-and I'm far healthier than I was told previously.

Of course, that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to spit in Bucky's face and kick him in the nuts (if he has any, and if my foot could locate them).

So, no assault from me-and, really, I don't have to ever talk to him or even acknowledge him. I wrote so much (all true) when I was away from Bucky and the Cripplers (good name for a rock band, don't you think?), and so many people read the blog after I moved hospitals-so everyone at the London knows what he is (and what they are), that I think I'm over it all.

The fact that I thought I had metastasis of cancer in my lower back (and I won't know for absolute certain until I get the PET scan results in another two weeks) made me think very hard about holding grudges. I think I was frightened into sitting down and deciding to let go of all the injustices. The people who caused it all couldn't give a rat's patootie. I'm the one who has suffered-and now I need to move forward-preferably without falling over.

Time for Starbucks.