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.
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