Montezuma's Revenge

Eleven weeks and counting. Seriously. Counting. At least I'm not down to counting days, hours, minutes. Not yet, anyway. Eleven weeks ago today I was incarcerated into the Dementia Central ward for crazies. You know how badly that affected me (and my hearing, too). But-that did have a somewhat interesting conclusion.

The injections of  anticoagulants have had really nasty side effects; I'm told that I will have to live with those until the end of March, which will be six months from the first jab. By side effects I don't just mean nasty bruises to the injection sites, or headaches, or occasional nausea, or the terrible dizziness that's part of the process-or even severe weakness. It's been very hard to even get out of bed in the morning-and that just isn't like me at all. I mean what happens when we eat something that disagrees with us-or food poisoning-or stomach flu. I mean that what goes in one way has to eventually come out the other way. Sometimes this happens much faster than we ever imagined (usually when we're in public). It's the runs, people. My grandfather used to call it Montezuma's Revenge. No-I don't know why either. But it sounds more delicate than saying that someone's got a bad case of diarrhea. And that's another side effect of the blood thinners. But I was told last week (by an immunology registrar, not by hematology Nurse Ratched) that I will have to somehow find a way to live with all this until the end of March-and that it's better than dying, isn't it? Well-when he put it like that...

So that's why you haven't heard from me. I feel like all I do is complain. And, let's face it. Nobody likes a moaner. 

I've got good news, though. All of a sudden I'm feeling a bit better about living with anything. In June I went to see the neurologist (yet another team. I've got loads of them). I said that I'm forgetting things: names, places, appointments, etc. I was worried. So he ordered a brain scan. I can truthfully say that it won't be cancer, or gentamicin, or heart trouble, or blood clots that will carry me off. It'll be the radiation poisoning from all the scans that'll kill me.

So- I had the brain scan, and then I went along for nearly seven hours of memory tests. Two hours one day, five the next. One ten minute bathroom break. Nothing else. Good thing that I have good kidneys. I got back completely exhaused (and thirsty). But I never had any results and I wondered why. I had an appointment with the neurologist yesterday afternoon. 

Now, talk about depression and anxiety! I had an acquaintance who was diagnosed with dementia in May. She doesn't remember me now. And after the five day torture in what I call Dementia Central, I was becoming afraid that I would end up like them some day-even if they were all thirty years older than me, it still bothered me. I needn't have worried.

The consultant sat me down and told me that brain cells start dying off around the age of 30, so the brain does shrink. I said that nobody  wants a shrunken head-but he said that all of us start to show signs of aging, and it's better than the alternative (don't you love that expression). Then he told me that I do not have any signs of dementia, and probably won't develop any, either. He said that the doctor who tested me has many years of experience, and that I surprised him and the rest of his team by being very high functioning. He said that the testing team would like to do some tests to see just how highly functioning I am. Goody. More testing. I said that I want to get past the blood clots first. Apparently I impressed everyone. Now- I have never been really good at accepting compliments, but I was so very shocked that I just said thank you. He will be seeing me again after the anticoagulants are finished. 

What a shocker! I nearly skipped out of his office. So many things have gone so badly that I had very low expectations that anything was ever going to go right. I keep looking around to see what is going to go wrong next. Maybe that should be a new year's resolution: try to be much more positive and optimistic. Hmmm...would I be so much fun then? Doubt it.

That is my update for now. Christmas is only two weeks away, and if it stops raining I'll be able to go outside and view all the decorations. Some have always been terrific. Others have been so dire that the people who put them up should run and hide...

Keep your heads down, people are now shooting each other in London, too. Stay safe and I will write again soon. Maybe I'll get lucky and the blood clots will disappear. Meanwhile, it is most definitely coffee time. 

Dementia Central is in the rearview mirror

 And finally-it's been exactly six weeks since I was released from my enforced incarceration into the hospital-and on Dementia Central, no less. I'm so very lucky that I got out with my hearing, not to mention my sanity.

I've had a seriously nasty time since I got a reprieve from the three screaming women. I'm quite certain that they forgot all about me in less than an hour after I left. I didn't forget about them, though. They stayed with me for awhile. I've never had to deal with anyone with dementia before, and I think that any carers or family are incredibly heroic. I couldn't do it. Within a few hours of listening to the rants, the screaming, the swearing (some of that came from me, truthfully), and the woman across from me taking her poo and smearing it all over her face (someone should have told her that it isn't a face mask), I was ready to throttle all of them. I can only take kindness and empathy so far...

I was so thrilled to get out of there that the first thing I did when I got in the door was make a very strong coffee. Bliss. Then a shower, as if I could wash off the preceding five days of extreme torture. I contacted everyone just to say that I was still alive.

I did arrange for tests for dementia. All I saw for days before my "prison sentence" were ads for dementia, dementia was everywhere. It wasn't until I saw my GP that I discovered that it wasn't some insidious plot to tell me something I didn't want to know; it was Dementia Awareness Month, so there was advertising everywhere. Thank goodness.

I took some tests and made the momentous discovery that I don't have any form of dementia and that I've still got all my marbles-in the right place and functioning perfectly. Forgetting things is normal-unless you forget everything, in which case - go to the doctor. And my 45 year old friend complained that she suffers from senior moments. I had to correct her: they aren't senior moments, they're pre-senior moments. She's only 45, Her brain isn't going anywhere.

But-it all gets worse, and everything went to Hell. I've been self-injecting the blood thinners for six weeks, and I was told by someone over the phone-over the phone, would you believe! = that I need to continue on the anticoagulants for a minimum of three months-possibly six months. Apparently it takes at least three months for the blood clots in my lungs to dissolve and disappear. That is what is written-and, of course, what is written must be true. Except when it isn't. And their protocols are BS anyway. Who lets a patient self-inject anticoagulants without checking to see if the medicine is working, and how well it is working, and the possibility that I might be absolutely fine in three months, not six? But the nurse told me-very rudely, in fact-that nobody will do anything because they're adhering to the guidelines. I questioned that-and her rudeness-and called her Nurse Ratched. Lucky for me that she wasn't a fan of the film, wasn't it?

So I got to work. I started emailing. And if you've been with me for awhile, you know what happens when I start emailing.  I don't stop until I get a satisfactory answer. So I emailed the immunologist and told her that there is absolutely no cooperation from the haematology team, and that some very nasty nurse I call Nurse Ratched refused to let me speak to the haematologist. I said that thirteen and a half years ago some absolutely incompetent doctors told me that gentamicin was safe and that they would be "watching me". I reminded her that they did such a sterling job that they nearly killed me; instead of killing me, they crippled me. And I said that I wasn't going to allow that to happen again. She emailed back, and told me not to worry, that she was going to email the haematology consultant.

The short version (or, short-ish version) is that my immunologist will be watching and I will have a phone call from the haematologist in December (before Christmas). And, if necessary, the immunology team will order a CT scan to see exactly what's going on in my lungs. I did point out that if anyone finds gold or diamonds when they scan me-they can't have them. But they're more than welcome to the blood clots. Amen to that.

The biggest problem now is the challenge to walk and stay upright. Anticoagulants have side effects: headaches, severe weakness and exhaustion, and profound dizziness. As you know, I'm dizzy enough already. So that's been a challenge. Then, of course, and saving the worst for last, is the tendency to bruise. I gave myself two big bruises after injections, but I've been doing this for six weeks, and I did a better job than the nurses did in five days. They gave me some massive bruises. They must have been in a hurry. 

My legs are so bruised that I look like I've been kicked by a horse (I've never been kicked by a horse, but if I had, it would probably look like my legs look now). I also bump into things-especially with the added dizziness, so every once in awhile I'll turn around and bump into something that would normally not bother me-but it would bruise (and hurt).

I have to admit that I'm so lucky that I got to the doctor in time to be diagnosed with blood clots. Apparently, if I'd waited much longer it would have been too late. So I'm sitting here and wondering that if I was a cat, I'd have gone through at least seven of my nine lives. Perhaps even eight. 

One of my very close friends said that I'm just always so unlucky. Actually, that isn't true. I'm extremely lucky. Every time I've had a very close call-and there have been way to many of those to think about-I somehow managed to survive. How much longer is anyone's guess. When I can stop bumping into things long enough to just sit and think, I'll have to decide what I want to do when all the injections are over and I'm fighting fit again. Or should I say when I'm fit again? 

I'm gearing up for Thanksgiving. I certainly have a lot to be thankful for. Plus-close your eyes if you're vegetarian- there will be turkey. And stuffing. Sweet potatoes. Cranberry sauce (homemade, too). I even might splash out on a bit of wine. I've got loads at home, but it's so old it can probably be used as very expensive vinegar. But I'll write as soon as anything is happening. 

Why is it that when a man asserts himself and stands up and fights for himself, he is looked on as a hero, someone who is admired for his forcefulness-but when a woman stands up for herself, asserts herself, won't back down until she gets results, she's called a bitch? Huh. There's something for you to think about.

 

Groundhog Day in Purgatory - and a week in Dementia Central

 It's either Groundhog Day or I'm secretly like a hamster on a wheel. It's been that sort of month since I last wrote. I was thinking of what to say since last time-perhaps something different, rather than the same old thing-and then the fertilizer hit the fan.

It started with severe chest pain- and I started to worry that the ablation had failed, and that I would have to undergo a third one. Needless to say, I just kept my mouth shut and hoped that everything would start to ease. But I had severe chest pain on my right side-and unless my heart decided to take a stroll into another part of my body, it looked as if I was having a lung problem. I became very breathless; I could hardly walk ten steps before I had to stop and do some breathing. Stairs were a problem. Everything was a problem.

I had a consultation with the immunology consultant coming up, so I decided to wait and tell her what was going on. So much for Groundhog Day...and for the wheel...

I was told to go to have a chest X-ray. I did that, and I waited. And waited. And waited. I finally had the X-ray and was thrilled to get out of the hospital after a four hour wait. The next day I had my infusions. I was told just before they started that I had to return to the imaging department for a CT scan. Why? I asked. I was told that the scan had been ordered. So I went. Grudgingly. Again, a lengthy wait. And another cannula. And more bruising up my arm because my veins are difficult to cannulate. So I went through that-and another three hours later I was on my way back.

Friday arrived, and I was feeling very rough-so I struggled to do my prescribed walk, and had to rest. Talk about feeling old and frail! Then I received a phone call that changed everything. It was from one of the immunology doctors. The X-ray and the scan showed blood clots in my lungs. I was gobsmacked. Clots? Plural? I asked. Yes, he said. Lungs? Plural? Yes-again. He told me to get over to A&E as soon as I could and ask for the medical team. Apparently the medical team expected me. So I made sure that nothing was cooking, all the lights were off, and I was on my way back to the hospital.

The short version: once again I  had a cannula inserted in my arm. I've got so many huge bruises up my arm that you would think I was on drugs. I sat, and sat-I was told that the bloods had to come back before they decided what to do. From 6pm to 10pm, I sat like a lemon, watching people come in and out, watching while patients who were waiting (it was an emergency room, after all) started shouting. And then I was told that I was being admitted. You could have knocked me over, I was that shocked.

Off I went-by wheelchair (now I really felt decrepit) to the 10th floor. I was taken to a room with three other patients. I wasn't told  that all three had dementia. Did I ever find out quickly!!

The woman next to me had been there for weeks; they were unable to find a care home for her. No surprises there, she was screaming from the time I arrived to the time I left. Where she got the lung capacity-and how she didn't lose her voice-are still a mystery. She screame so loud they could probably hear her in Liverpool. And she spat. And kicked. and scratched, and swore. At top volume, all night and all day for the five days I was there. And the other two-well, across from the screamer was Jill, who shouted, cursed, swore at the nurses-and at me-and showed herself to be a racist by the things she said to-well, everyone. And the woman across from me shouted every time anyone came near her-which was often, because she was incontinent and had a habit of taking her feces and playing with them, rubbing her face with her poo. Delightful, don't you think?

All three were incontinent. All three screamed, shouted, swore, and needed constant changing. And I was stuck there for four days and nights. I had no sleep, and I was, truthfully, ready to throttle all of them. I kept complaining and asking to be moved, but I was told that there were no beds (I seriously doubt that), and that I should ignore all of them. 

That is why I started calling the room Dementia Central. I complained to my consultant when I left, but she couldn't do anything either. What moron takes a person who has no sign of dementia (a normal person), and isn't incontinent, and puts her in a room with a bunch of screaming, abusive crazies? 

At least I've still got my hearing-and my sanity. And blood clots in both lungs. I'm now injecting myself daily with anticoagulants to try to get rid of the blood clots-which are very dangerous. I get to have so many scans that it won't be cancer or blood clots that'll kill me. It'll be the radiation.

I was so shocked by the horrific experience that I told my GP that if I ever develop any form of dementia-Alzheimer's or any other, because there are several-I will fly over to Switzerland (assisted suicide is legal there) and go to Dignitas and that will be the end. I really, honestly, never want to end up like any of the three "roommates". I felt terribly sorry for all of them-but only for the first sleepless night. It got very wearing, very quickly.

If anyone is caring for someone with any form of dementia, you should get a medal.

Now I'm going to do what I started to do on Friday: laundry! Boring, but consider the alternative...

Mickey, Minnie, and the whole bloody extended family

And here I was, congratulating myself on refusing to be grumpy. Grumpy: no, pants, yes. We all need our pants. 

This positive change of heart nearly worked, too-until I nearly had a seizure when I saw a mouse run across the kitchen floor. I think that I shouted "shit!". And I figured that if there was one, there must be an entire family. So I started spraying clove oil everywhere. Clove oil, or so my neighbor (a mouse veteran) tells me, will put off mice. They don't like the smell of clove oil, or peppermint oil...

I tried to put down clove oil everywhere; all I succeeded in doing was nearly asphyxiate myself in the process. The smell of clove oil permeated the flat. To be less PC, the whole place stank of clove oil. I even smelled of cloves. Some people moved aside as I was coming up the road. Perhaps that's the secret of getting people to avoid crashing into me as they're tapping away on their phones-or are simply completely unconscious. Clove oil. Come Christmas, I will be in hiding.

Well. This is what preoccupied me since I last wrote. The weather wasn't great: rain and more rain, cooler then hotter, and we're supposed to expect very hot weather all next week. My attempts to stay upright were very so-so. When the barometric pressure changes, when it rains, when it starts to get dark-all these weather changes seriously affect my attempts at something resembling balance. But-I didn't fall over. I call that progress.

I finally had to give up trying to be kind and get the mice to go plague someone else. I used clove oil. I then used peppermint oil: nicer, but then I smelled like a candy cane. So did the flat. I felt sick from all the smells, and the mice-the last time I looked, they were line dancing. So I called in the big guns: mouse poison pellets. Will they work? I bloody hope so. Otherwise I'll have to sleep in the park.

As for Mickey and Minnie-and the rest of their family-I said this morning as I put down more poison (the little gannets scoffed everything I put down last night), they have a choice: leave or die. If necessary, I'll have to call the mouse patrol (exterminators). 

I'm not grumpy, though. I'm too busy to avoid asphyxiation from clove oil... 

Grumpy Pants: A new and timely lifestyle

 I don't usually call myself names-unless they're things like wonderful, and fabulous, of course. During lockdown I decided that everyone would benefit from being as kind to themselves as possible, given that we might all be dead tomorrow anyway. Let's all give ourselves compliments - if we don't, who else will?

But-this morning I looked in the mirror and saw Grumpy Pants looking back at me. And I went into Marks and Spencer for some food, and spent some time looking (carefully, obviously, because who wants to have the crap beaten out of them because some moron says they're staring) at other shoppers. It was an eye-opener, that is for sure.

If I'm Grumpy, then I didn't have to look far for the other six dwarfs. They were coming past me two by two. 

During the pandemic, people were uncharacteristically polite. Some were even helpful. And now, three and a half (approximately) years later, they're all back to their nasty, rude, obnoxious, stupid selves. They don't look where they're going, they expect someone on crutches to sprint out of their way, and most of them are just generally a huge pain in the ass.

So Grumpy is justifiable in my view. That should be the number one baby's name this year. Or any year. I admit to sometimes wondering what would happen if some nitwit on a bike rode up onto the pavement (which they do regularly), no helmets, no lights on their bikes, no license plates (handy so that someone could identify the body) and some elderly bloke on one of those four wheelers rode into him and tossed him in front of a moving bus... I'm waiting for that to happen, just so I could have a good laugh. 

Grumpy is good. Irascible might be better...

Crashing and Burning: Only the Strong Survive

 I'll say one thing about life: it's never boring. Even when I think it's boring, something invariably happens to liven things up. 

There I was, with my lovely new laptop, ready to have a go-with no instructions, either-so-either brave or foolhardy. But it didn't matter, because I collected it, struggled to get it home without doing my back in (or falling over)-and bang! Wallop! It was flu. Not Covid. Flu. Not even something exciting, just garden variety flu. Struck down by the bloody flu. Grrr...

So that's where I've been since I last wrote. All around me, people were dropping like flies. Every time I turned on the newsfeed, every time I listened to the news, it was either one tragedy or another or-someone well known reeled over and croaked. And some of them were young (ish), too.

I've been in a real crap mood for the last few days: irascible, short-tempered, like a snapping turtle. Last night I figured out the problem: scan back thirteen years to the same three days, and you'll find that the incompetent morons at the Royal London immunology department vey nearly killed me. Gentamicin. The dirtiest word in my vocabulary (not that I know many, I just keep repeating them over and over again).

I do find it difficult to let go of that whole situation and the resulting injustice of it all. I know that I have to let go in order to move on-but on days when it's raining, or the barometric pressure outside changes-and this is London, so the weather never stays the same for long-I stagger all over the place. The answer to will I either get a ground floor apartment or someone to help me-absolutely not. Not yet, anyway. I just refuse to give up. 

I said that I want to have a t-shirt made-a copy of the one I saw a few weeks ago. It said:

I do not spew profanity. I enunciate perfectly. I'm a fucking lady. 

That was so funny that I sent it to one of my friends-the one who would find it funny. I might have one made for her for Christmas-if I can find someone who will make the t-shirt for me. I had a brilliant store years ago, they would put just about anything on a t-shirt. But-they're in New York. A long commute.

So that brings us up to date-for now, anyway. My hope is that I will be able to stay healthy from now on. I got the look from the clinic when I went to have my infusions: it said: where is your mask??

Meanwhile, I'm going to do my best to keep my mouth shut and stay out of trouble. We all know just how long that's going to last!

Crashing and Burning: The rise, fall and rise again of yours truly

 I'm dragging myself around and feeling like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards. It's been like that since I last wrote. 

You would hope that all the consultants would see me on the same day-in the same week-but no, that would be an ideal world. An ideal world would be not having to see any consultants at any time-ever. But I am getting closer. I've been informed that the vestibular condition is quite permanent; the dizziness is chronic, I should make sure that someone is caring for me just in case I catapult myself down the stairs again. As if!

I'm relatively discharged from anything to do with neuro-otology. The consultant feels that there is nothing more that can be done. Such optimism is so encouraging. I've got an appointment with him next May. So I've got some time to prove that he's very, very mistaken. Unless I'm living in cloud cuckoo land, I've got a few months to increase the amount and duration of my eye exercises. I also really need to have a positive attitude to prove everyone associated with vestibular medicine that I can heal myself, and that I'm not giving up. The fat lady hasn't sung yet.

This week I went along to another hospital to have the loop recorder removed from my chest. The loop recorder was inserted nearly four years ago; it isn't a pacemaker, but merely a heart beat monitor. Every time I had a tachycardia attack it measured the number of heartbeats and the length of the attack. It was incredibly valuable; I had the ablation-the first one that failed-because the attacks were dangerously long, and increasingly frequent. Same again for the second ablation. But the battery decided to die a few months ago, and the thing was sitting in my chest, deceased (thank goodness it was deceased, and I'm not!). So I made enough noise to have it removed. 

That was a laugh. The person who removed it was a nurse, being trained in loop recorder removal, and she kept losing the part that needed to be pulled in order to remove the whole thing. She kept digging. I finally asked whether she was used to doing these procedures. All she did was glare. So I decided that discretion being the better part of valor meant: shut up.

That was on Wednesday. On Thursday morning I did a route march into the West End-and I bought a new laptop. My old one was twelve years old, was brilliant, and I used it every day. But it expired just before lockdown. So I had to use my phone-and then the library's computers. The problem with going to the library is that a lot of people are thinking the same thing, so I have to get there when they open. Another problem is that-and I learned this from actually seeing it for myself, which was disgusting-people will wipe their noses with their hands and then use the keyboard. Gross. Made me wonder what else they wiped with their hands before (and, in some cases, during) using the keyboard. I always used an antibacterial wipe before I used the computer. Ewww... but I finally went to get my own. Hooray-that's all I have to say.

Actually, it isn't all I have to say-because I now have to figure out how to use it! It isn't like my old one. This one requires double-tapping. Double-tapping!! What????

You see where I said rise again. I now have to use the little grey cells and sit patiently-and we all know that I was born without patience-to work out what is supposed to go where. I have to admit that sitting and getting used to a brand new computer that doesn't behave the way my old one did-fourteen years ago!!-is going to be a challenge. I've always been up for a challenge. Now I've got several. 

I'll let you know how it goes. It's possible that it's going to drive me to drink...

Fight Club...Fight Week...Fight Life

 Now is when I really needed my suit of armor, shield and sword. Maybe a very large hammer. Last week I went into battle-unarmed except for my strong and sometimes very blunt tongue. And did it work? Hell, no, I'm still in combat. I seem to be always in combat.

A week ago (Monday) I decided to cancel an order for a sofabed from a store called John Lewis. If you live here (my sympathies) and shop here, You'll know the store. You'll also know that the employees pride themselves on good service, good merchandise, etc, etc. Everybody wants to be upmarket. Except- they aren't.

I cancelled the order on the Monday, and that started a ridiculous amount of time trying to get a refund. I realized that, when it comes to John Lewis, the left hand doesn't know (or care) what the right hand is doing. Every day (including infusion day) I was on the phone, chasing customer service for a refund (nearly £800, so I wasn't going to let it go). Every day I was given a different story-and it was a load of BS, because all they had to do was issue a refund.

On Monday it will be an incredible two weeks since this fight began. I've been in combat mode for nearly two weeks, and JL refuses to issue a refund. And there is no excuse that holds up. I did everything right (I know. I checked. You know by now how much I believe in doing my due diligence). The only thing for me to do is to present myself in the Oxford Street store and refuse to leave until the idiots involved issue a refund. And I told the last person I spoke to yesterday that if I have to do a day trip to John Lewis, I will be very loud-and I will call the tabloids for some backup. So let's see what happens. I'll let you know.

What I find interesting is the fact that people in this country are very quick to take advantage of older people (especially women), and they see someone who is on an elbow crutch and clearly has a mobility challenge- and they will take full advantage of that person. I thought, after so many years, that this only happens here. The truth is that it happens everywhere. 

So I was on strike on Independence Day, and I hope that everyone celebrated! I contacted everyone at home to wish them a happy 4th-as I always do-but I felt like I missed something this year. I did: fireworks! Oh, dear-I'm out of fireworks. July 4th just doesn't seem the same. So in November-when fireworks are sold to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day-I'll just replenish my stock.

Every year-up until the pandemic hit us all- I went with a small group of friends to the nearby park, found an open space (so we wouldn't set the place on fire), and set off fireworks. People actually enjoyed it-and we made sure that we cleaned up quickly and left before we were caught (fireworks on any other day but November 5th are illegal and someone could get arrested. Murderers get off-but anyone celebrating July 4th-well, that's a terrible crime),

So we're now up to date, and I will keep you updated on the John Lewis combat story. Always stick up for yourselves. Always. It's pretty likely that nobody else will.

Three weeks and I'm still not dead

Technically, it's been five weeks since the ablation-and I'm still not dead. But who's counting?

It's been so tough. the boiling heat of the past few days haven't helped. I'm definitely not a hot weather person. It goes above 20C (68F), I start to sweat, my hair starts to frizz (a white person with an afro-not a pretty sight). Then I get very short-tempered - even more so than usual. I'm from the land of air conditioning. I'll need a bigger fan. Or three. Or sleep in the fridge.

I went away for a week. I just had enough of people crashing into me because they didn't have the brains to look up from their phones. Then I remembered where I'm living. Stupidity is the norm; after so many years I shouldn't be surprised. So I picked myself up and went to a small bed and breakfast outside London. Trees, grass (the kind you walk on), a very small, one horse town (maybe even half a horse), and one main supermarket. One. No butchers, or greengrocers, but several hairdressers. So many hairdressers! People clearly have their priorities right...

And the heat really hit hard on Friday. I felt like I should just have someone put an apple in my mouth, stick me on a skewer, put me above the concrete, and keep turning until I reached well done (about twenty minutes). I felt sorry for the smokers. It was so hot and airless that I could barely breathe. Imagine someone who smokes two packs a day. They'd be dying. But-according to all the research, they're probably dying anyway. This would make it faster.

Tomorrow I will get weighed. I'm so (not) looking forward to it. I'm just bored by the whole thing. And two of our nurses just went out on maternity leave last week. Two-out of four. It must be something in the water-I know, I was just making a very bad joke. Blame the heat. I did say to one nurse last time that they couldn't have timed it better. Consultants are going out on strike again next month, nurses will be doing the same, and all the patients will have to learn how to cannulate each other. Hey - it'll be fun! More scars!

Just for a little perspective: my friend in Florida emailed me to tell me that last week the temperature in central Florida was 110F (roughly 44C). In the shade. In the shade! So who am I to complain about 30C? If you're in Florida, that's practically winter.

Global warming? What global warming?

Hell wasn't interested-si I'm still here, alive and kicking-just not as high or as fast

 Three weeks ago I was panicking about the ablation-walking around the house, wondering if I should make a will, and looking at the kitchen (which still needs cleaning) and thinking that if I croaked, the kitchen is a total mess. Nervous? Apprehensive? WTF-someone I don't know, in a place that's unfamiliar, is going to poke around my heart and burn some tissue-and what if the person is a junior doctor and has no idea what he's doing? Nerves? What nerves?

Well. Two weeks ago today I was at the hospital, where I had to wait seven hours for the operation. Seven hours! I probably could have walked home-and trust me, I was so tempted! But when I got there, I wasn't sure how long I was going to be waiting. As it turns out-and they told me seven hours later!!-they didn't have a bed for me, and they wanted to keep me overnight, so I had to wait. And sweat. 

I went outside after I checked in, because they hospital was in chaos: building works. So I walked up the road, and I could have sworn I saw barbed wire. Turns out that it was barbed wire. A notorious men's prison is just up the road. And later, when I sat in reception and was talking with some other patients who were waiting for various procedures, one told me that where Wormwood Scrubs ends, the other side of the wall belongs to Hammersmith Hospital. Of course, I had to comment, didn't I? I said that was wonderful, because if a prisoner got stabbed or sick, all they had to do was bring him to the wall and throw him over. No need for an ambulance.

The man who was standing there, laughing because he clearly thought that was funny, turned out to be one of the two consultants who performed the surgery. Now that was funny...

I'm not going to give you all the gory details of the surgery, and my stay, and how excruciating the whole three hour procedure was (I wasn't allowed to go to sleep, they needed me to tell them when I was in pain-which was all the time), but I will say how relieved I was when they wheeled me into a ward at about 8pm.I wasn't allowed to move for a few hours, but I wasn't bothered about that. They told me that I needed to rest and not do anything strenuous for the next two weeks (no housework. Yippee!!), and I could start walking a little after a week or so. They also said that I will know for certain in three months if the procedure was successful, since it takes that long for the heart to heal.

These two weeks have been very difficult. I have done too much walking, but I haven't been doing a lot of bending, lifting, or doing anything strenuous (I asked them to define strenuous. They just looked at me and shook their heads. Duh...)

So I'm most definitely back. I was told that I would be extremely tired for a few weeks, and that was definitely true. But when I got back, I emailed everyone and told them that I hopefully will not have any more attacks of tachycardia, because the extra pathway in my heart is now sealed. And I jokes that if there's a Hell, nobody was interested. And if there's a Heaven, nobody is interested there, either.

I'm going to be around for awhile-at least, I hope so. We never know for sure, do we? I just hope that I hang around long enough-and healthy enough-to be a pain in the ass to as many people I know as possible. Now that is what I call an achievement!

Overwhelmed, Underwhelmed, and just plain whelmed: back into combat

 Here I am, nearly a month later, a bit scarred but otherwise undaunted (mostly, anyway). I was all set to write again after a week-but like I said, back into combat.

I had a massive attack of tachycardia that lasted nearly an hour. And I was on my way to an appointment when it happened, so I was out and about and in a seriously nasty part of town-one where older people who are obviously mobility challenged are prime targets. Frankly, I was too sick to care. 

I did manage to make it back, but then I had to get from the bus stop to home-which would normally have taken me ten minutes, but this time took me nearly a half hour. I cannot believe how relieved I was when I stumbled through my front door and headed straight for bed. Better that than fall flat on my face. After September's bad fall, I'm not allowed to fall again. Ever.

If you want to be completely incapacitated for awhile, tachycardia is the way to do it. So I had to do combat to get the ablation moved to-next week. Waiting a month is doable; waiting until Christmas (cardiology's first option) is not. So now I have to get ready for someone I don't know to shove a catheter up a vein in my groin and into my heart, fixing the electrical system which has gone haywire, and hopefully this time it'll work. 

Are there risks? Well, yes. I received a phone call from cardiology yesterday, giving me all the details: time, place, must be fasting, bring my medications, etc. Then came a little information about the risks involved: bleeding from the incision site, infection, fluid around the heart, damage to the heart which would require more surgery and possibly a pacemaker (just what I need: more hardware in my chest), and, of course, the big ones (saved for last): the possibility of a stroke and/or death. 

Just what a hospital phobic patient needs to instill faith and confidence in yet another surgeon. But-it's either that or suffer from tachycardia until the heart is damaged permanently. It's a bit like playing roulette, isn't it?

So that is what my last few weeks have been like. Perhaps I should get a suit of armor. Now there's an idea! Only it would be too heavy, I would probably waste no time falling over, and even if I didn't - how would I pee? This, of course, raises the question: how did the knights of old pee?

I got a very pointed email from someone who has been following this blog for several years. And she was not very happy with me. She pointed out that most people want to lose weight, not gain weight, and that I should  quit whingeing about being so underweight. Nobody, she said, wants to hear about someone who is unable to gain weight. So I had to point out that I have been dieting for most of my adult life. I have. I've tried just about every diet there is, even some of the crazy ones. Now I'm done. I will have to stop asking the people who should know-or at least, try to find out-what is going on before I'm thin enough to slide under the doors instead of walking through them.

The latest, before I get off this really tedious topic: I saw a nutritionist yesterday,  she weighed me, and I haven't lost any more weight. She commented that there are people who are walking around with extremely low BMIs- really seriously skinny people ( I said that they look like stick insects), and they're absolutely fine and healthy. Grrr... so up the calories and add lots of fats, and stop worrying because it'll just make things worse.

Oh, I completely forgot to mention the coronation. Oh my goodness, the coronation. There was a coronation. I watched some of it, and was astonished at the huge crowds that took over central London. The armed forces were amazing with the detailed and well executed parades. The horses were gorgeous. The coronation concert on Saturday night was pretty good, with Lionel Ritchie getting everyone up and dancing to All Night Long. Take That closed the show with a show stopping finale-they were fantastic. And the best part of the whole concert. You can tell I'm not a royalist. But it was a bit of history, worth seeing, and I somehow doubt that I'll see another coronation in my lifetime. Woohoo.

Now I'm in need of coffee. And biscuits. I'll be back soon...

Once again, the s**t has hit the fan...even the chocolate bunnies couldn't save it...

Here I was, going to make a joke about the revenge of the chocolate bunnies, when all hell seemed to break loose.

For starters, I got told off for complaining about not being able to gain weight. This was from people who are always on a diet. Believe me, for years I was also on a diet. And now, no matter how much I stuff my face, I'm unable to gain the weight. So trust me when I say that I know what it's like. And I told my friend who is always whingeing about the fact that she's too fat (she isn't) that she should stop worrying and just enjoy life. What an oops!

The colorectal people took nearly five weeks-FIVE weeks!!- to suddenly decide that the biopsy results are inconclusive. They were supposed to order some really important tests-but didn't. Instead, they discharged me without contacting me about anything - excuse me! Here, I thought that I was the patient! They left the tests to my GP, who has been jumping up and down and calling them incompetent (they are). So the immunologist is dealing with everything-and it isn't even her job to do that. But nobody else will, so she's stuck with me. For now.

And I'm still extremely underweight and feeling like a bucket of fertilizer (I'm being so polite, aren't I?). Nobody has a clue. And the best thing I can do at the moment is keep eating, but be mindful of the things I'm eating. My stomach tells me now when I've eaten something it doesn't like.

That is the whole colorectal story, and how, when the NHS is good, it's fine, but when it's bad (like it has been), it is a total pile of shit (so much for being polite). But-at the moment, there are other things on my mind. Like: the complaint I made with the Ombudsman about the London Borough of Haringey. 

Now-bearing in mind that in the many decades I've lived in this country, the only council property I've ever rented is this one, it has been a real eye-opener. No wonder the tabloids are filled with horror stories about abuse, rats (the two legged as well as the four legged), crime, everything you can possibly think of - and nothing is ever done to help people who need it.

The Ombudsman found in my favor-did I tell you? And I've been given an award, while the council has had a strongly worded criticism. I'm still waiting for the money-and if the council doesn't cough it up, on Monday I'm to inform the Ombudsman. That won't go down well, since Haringey is one of the worst boroughs in London.

To make matters even greater-I received an email from the Ombudsman last week. The complaint I made about favoritism, incompetence and racism on the part of the tenancy management team is now being taken up by the Ombudsman as a separate issue. I seem to be making friends everywhere in the council, don't I? 

The lesson here is clear-at least it is for me. Nobody will speak up for me if I don't speak up for myself. Honestly, if you're a woman (of any age), and you're on your own, there are people who will abuse you, threaten you, try to frighten you, do whatever they can to assert their authority (even if they have none). If you don't stand up and fight for yourself and your rights, don't count on anyone else to do it for you-or even to help you do it for yourself.

Maybe I should invest in some boxing gloves. And a suit of armor...

The Battle Continues

 The one good thing about this past week is that I'm no longer blowing myself across time and space (that means: no farting). I was squeaking when I was walking-it was, I suppose, hilarious. At least I didn't have what I've been calling for years an SBD (Silent But Deadly), 

The problem has been the fact that I've done nothing but eat, sleep, wee and poop. I might as well have been a dog. There isn't even anyone to come and scratch my ears...

Easter is this weekend, so nobody seems to be doing anything over at the hospital. I've heard nothing from anyone-except the immunologist, who told me last week that more tests are going to be done. More tests! They are really clueless as to what is causing all this weight loss. My friends are telling me that I have the ideal opportunity to eat whatever I want, as much as I want, and not worry about losing weight. Huh.

If I lose more weight, I won't have to open any doors; I can just slide under them.

Tomorrow I get weighed. It's infusion day, so I'll find out what other surprises are in store for me. I just have to accept that I'm at the mercy of doctors who are clueless. Maybe I'll be one of those people with something so extraordinary, so very weird, that it'll be written about in medical books. As long as it isn't posthumous, I don't care. I told them to fix it. 

So here we are at Easter. I've bought my Lindt chocolate Easter bunny, as I do every year-I might even splash out on a large Easter egg. Oohhh, all those calories! Who cares?

Happy Easter, all. Eat, drink plenty of wine or whatever, and don't count the calories. It's Easter. Calories don't count.

The Word of the Day is: Flatulence

So much more polite than  just-farting...and that tells you a lot about the past ten days or so. 

I had the hospital visit from Hell. So I'll be brief and save all the disgusting details-except that I stand by what I said about the colonoscopy when I said that it was so excruciating that anyone who really accepts anal sex is either a masochist or has no nerve endings. As if that wasn't bad enough, they fill you full of air so they can see clearly. And you start breaking wind before the procedure is finished.

There is no dignity in lying on a table with your backside in someone's face as they're shoving a hosepipe up your rectum; there's even less dignity when you start farting in their face. It was terrible.

Then they put me in a room with three other women, and two of them were incontinent. One  of them was not only peeing all over the bathroom floor, but also has really serious diarrhea. And when I would open the bathroom door I would be treated to the lovely sight (and smell) of floods and piles of poo. I ended up stalking the nurses to find a toilet down the hall that was clean and dry. That only worked for awhile; the woman who was only peeing everywhere watched me, and then followed me to the other bathroom. And she left a river on the floor...

I did say that it was hell. But it got worse. And now I've got less faith and trust in the NHS than I had before (which was already none). They forgot about me. Yes, that's what I said: they put me in a bed on Friday, I was supposed to be monitored and released on Saturday morning-and nobody came to check on me. Nobody, Duh!!!

On Saturday I started annoying the nurses, because I kept insisting that they find out where the doctors were, why nobody was coming to make sure I hadn't died (or escaped. Or been peed on). And nobody knew anything. So I persevered in making a nuisance of myself. One nurse said that she has left messages for the colorectal team but nobody had replied. And nobody replied until 11pm. The nurse came to see me and told me that they hadn't come to see me because I "wasn't on their list".

I just about popped a blood vessel. I reminded her that I'd just had surgery the day before; how did any imbecile leave me off their list? I said that I'm very thin but I'm not transparent. No response.

Sunday morning the consultant finally arrived-and apologized. My face told him how angry I was. And I was even less pleased when he said that biopsies were taken and sent, but the fact was that nobody knew what was causing all the weight loss and weakness. I should keep eating as much as possible-and they would do some more investigations. I could go home as soon as they completed the discharge papers. I felt like I was on parole (never been. I wonder if that's what it's like).

They let me go at 6:00 Sunday night. Incredible or what?? I got home and I nearly burst into tears-not only because they were all so incredibly incompetent, or even the fact that they put me into a room with people who made me want to vomit. I was so grateful to be home, so grateful to have my own bathroom, so grateful to be able to go to the loo and not have to wade through urine and excrement. Really, really grateful.

And in nearly two weeks I have heard nothing from anyone. So all I can do is keep eating and hope that whatever this is gets better soon and I get back to normal.

So we are now up to date. I'm still alive and kicking (just not very high at the moment), and very thin (but not yet thin enough to slide under the doors instead of opening them normally). 

And-I can eat all kinds of goodies I wouldn't normally eat and not put on any weight. How lucky is that?

One damn thing after another - when the fertilizer hit the fan...

 Churchill said that first. And Churchill knew a thing or two about the old saying that things come in threes-except when they come in eights or nines and just keep coming.

When I last wrote I'd been away for a few days, and everything was quiet and peaceful. Of course, that was doomed  to end sooner or later. Sooner, in fact, which is why you're only hearing from me now. I'm either a pessimistic optimist or an optimistic pessimist. Either way, shortly after I last wrote, the shit hit the fan. No shit splatter, though, because it didn't just hit the fan. It was as if I was standing still, minding my own business, and a cosmic sized pile of shit fell right on my head. I've spent the past few weeks digging myself out (speaking figuratively, of course!).

I started to lose weight-a lot of weight-and for no reason. I like my food, so there wasn't the eating disorder that would first come to mind. I started losing weight, then I just wasn't hungry. My GP requested a sample. And it showed the presence of blood. So she sent an urgent request to the colorectal cancer surgeons at my hospital (not the local one, which is known for taking your arm off if you go to the emergency room with a headache).

A word about specimens: the specimen bottles used to be little round ones that were easy to fill. These newer ones are plastic, shaped like test tubes, and if you have to provide a sputum sample, good luck: you need to cough with the top of the bottle next to your mouth, then spit and hope for the best. Now-the other bottles are exactly the same, except that the very small lid holds-get this!-a tiny spoon. Someone who designed these-did they really have a degree in engineering?

The easy-ish way is to use a paper plate. Truly. You have to be double jointed, really. Poo on the plate, trying very hard not to miss and hit the floor, and pebbledash your bathroom. Then-wearing gloves,  obviously, and thanking someone somewhere that your doing yours, not someone else's (wouldn't that be gross), and try to use the tiny spoon to fill the tube-while trying very hard not to laugh.

And the colorectal team sent me for a CT scan, which was supposed to be urgent but ended up taking three weeks for the report to go to the surgeons (bless the NHS for crappy timing).

Meanwhile, I just keep losing weight, even though I've eaten massive numbers of calories every day. And-luckily-tomorrow I will have a gastroscopy and colonoscopy to see what is causing all this.It's a good thing, because if this went on much longer, I wouldn't have to use doors. I could just slide under them.

If you've never had the combination colonoscopy/gastroscopy, you are so lucky! You have to only eat white bread, skinless chicken-all bland foods and absolutely no fiber. I'm not hungry and I'm fantasizing over a peanut butter and banana sandwich! The day before, you drink this stuff I call drain cleaner-because it's supposed to flush out everything that's in your system so the doctor can see what's going on inside.

Oh, joy-you're up all night, and on the day someone plays hunt the vein to cannulate you. I always end up with so many bruises on both arms that I look like I've been on drugs. You get sedated-but you feel it when someone shoves a tube the size of a garden hose into your mouth and tells you to swallow. Oh sure. Have you ever tried to swallow a hosepipe? 

There is absolutely no way to maintain any sense of dignity during these procedures. Once they remove the hosepipe from your mouth, you get rolled on your side and another one gets shoved up the back end. At least-I hope it's another one, and they're not rinsing off the first one and reusing it.

I remember years ago, when I had one of these-and I knew the doctor for years before, so it was more or less okay. I asked him afterwards why they just don't shove one hosepipe down and one hosepipe uf and just tie a knot in the middle. He laughed. Now he's in private practice in Harley Street, making the big bucks. If I could, I'd go back to ask him to handle this. 

At the same time, when it was all over, someone asked how I was feeling. I just had a hosepipe shoved up and down both ends, how do you think I'm feeling?? I just said that the whole thing was so painful-I will never understand how anyone-unless they're masochistic, insane, or have no nerve endings-would ever, EVER, want to have anal sex. 

I'm thinking of having a t-shirt made. It'll be white, with black printing. On the back there will be a huge arrow pointing down, all the way to the hem. On the top of that, in big black letters, it'll say:

EXIT ONLY

Maybe on the front, there will be an arrow pointing up, with the saying FOOD GOES HERE

I'm still working on it. Think it'll catch up?

I'm off to have more black coffee, a load of water, the drain cleaner later-so I'll see you at the weekend, and hope that everything goes according to plan. Huh-nothing ever goes according to plan!

Knowledge is Power (except when it isn't) - and it's back to the gates of Hell. Again...

 I got so fed up with the state of the world and everyone around me moaning - like I've got all the answers? FFS (for fuck's sake-and now I have to restart the swear box, since I wore out the old one), I don't even know half the questions. We find out the questions, search for the answers, and by the time we get them, we keel over and croak. What's fun about that?

But seriously...I went off grid for a week, out into the wilds of Kent, into a small guest house with no radio, no television, no computer access, and no noise. None. If I wanted to go online, I had to go to Costa, and it was a case of maybe it'll work-then again, maybe not. So it was a real learning experience, I can tell you.

There was a Tesco, so I didn't starve, and there were several churches, in case I felt the need to sit on a bench by the churchyard and do absolutely nothing. There were lots of hairdressers, and two pubs. Around me in North London there are more pubs than hairdressers. In fact, there are more pubs than anything else!

I brought a book, which I read in a couple of days, since there wasn't really anything else to do. And I walked - a lot-and sat by the churchyard and meditated. Now-I'm not a weirdo, just in case you think that I am someone who is macabre and loves cemeteries. But I remember (vaguely, it was a while ago) stopping at the cemetery near our summer home and reading the headstones. I always notice the dates, the inscriptions, and, most importantly, if the graves were being well cared for. I used to wonder what the people were like when they were younger, and when I saw a child's grave I always said a little prayer. Weird? Well, maybe. And I remember my mother telling me to never step on a grave, always go around, because it' very disrespectful to step on someone's grave. 

That all came back to me as I sat by the churchyard, noting how many graves were left untended, wondering what happened to the families of the deceased. Perhaps I'm wondering if I will end up like Eleanor Rigby (if you know the reference, I know how old you are!). 

One thought always leads to another, and in the stillness and peace and quiet that I enjoyed while I was hibernating, I started thinking about longevity, and how it's true that nobody gets off this earth alive. Sooner or later, we all croak, and we've got no idea when or how it's going to happen. So we need to put our skates on and do the best we can right now, because we don't know if we will still be around tomorrow.

That isn't really negative; it's simply realistic. I'm thinking about the Stoics and how they said we should make the most out of everything while we still can. And on Tuesday, my GP's office called to ask for a sample for the lab. I'm losing a lot of weight, and I'm not doing too well, so everyone is bothered. I left a sample, and went on my merry way. But-

On Wednesday afternoon my GP called me. My GP never calls me, she's that busy-so I knew there was a problem. There was the presence of blood. She said that she is fast-tracking me to the colorectal cancer surgeons at my hospital. You can imagine my state of absolute panic. Calm? Cool? Unworried? Oh, hell, no. My mother was one of nine children, and I used to joke that at that time there was no television-but seven died of cancer, the other two keeled over from heart attacks. So there's a very unpleasant history there.

I got a call from a nurse on Thursday night, and a call from another nurse last night. I've got an appointment to see the surgeons next Thursday afternoon. We'll then decide the next move. Oh, joy-just what I didn't want and never expected.

Of course, I emailed my friends, and they all raced back with notes of support. They also reminded me that it could be nothing-and if it was something noxious, they will take care of it. It isn't like lockdown, where surgeries were cancelled because people were dying of Covid. Another reason to be thankful: two lots of Covid and a lengthy period of long Covid, still here, still kicking, still mouthing off and trying to help people who can't (or won't) help themselves.

Will I ever change? Nah-probably not. Once an activist, always an activist.

So-that brings us up to date. I will, of course, let you know what the surgeons decide. Meanwhile I'm trying very hard to be grateful for living this long and being this healthy. Trying. Not necessarily succeeding, but trying anyway. 

 

Murphy's Law Strikes Again...and again...and again...

Ahhh, the weeks since I last wrote. First, we had a blackout in the area - more than 65 properties had no power. People were freaking out, running from door to door to find out what happened and how to fix it. Did I do the same? Well...no, I did not.

I got on the phone (after I found my trusty flashlight, and patted myself on the back for just changing the batteries at the beginning of the month), and started calling people to actually discover why we all were blacked out and when we'd have the lights on again. I rang the council's emergency number. That was a waste of time. I got a numpty who could barely speak English, let alone tell me anything useful. He said to call my utility provider. More proof that the council is completely useless...

As I was calling around to find out what was going on, my phone suddenly rang. It was the power network, someone who had emailed me during lockdown and advising me that I'm a priority customer and if any power went out, they would contact me. I thought-oh, sure, who are these people and why would I believe them. How wrong I was! They were fantastic.

I was reassured that the electricity would be back on between the hours of 4pm and 5pm. I was asked if I have any medical devices that require electricity. I've got a heart monitor, and it requires electricity to work. So I was told not to worry, that underground cables had broken and needed to be repaired, so the power in the area needed to be shut down. Well-obviously!

I've made fun of just about every service (or lack thereof) I can think of - but I have to say that the power network was excellent. I went around and knocked on doors to tell people that the lights would be back on in about an hour. True to the lack of manners of people in this country, not a single person said thanks. I'm used to rudeness and stupidity, I've lived here long enough to expect it. And the power went back on in less than an hour, and the network both texted and phoned me. I wish that was the kind of service provided by everyone in this country. Sadly-no.

Mr. Murphy and his sodding law decided to reach up and bite me a few days later. I started to fall over-embarrassing as well as painful-as I realized that BPPV had returned with a vengeance. So I had to try to get an appointment with the vestibular physiotherapist to get it sorted. It's easier to get a date with the King than it is to get an emergency appointment with the physio. And for some weird reason there was a massive amount of traffic, so it took me three times longer than normal. There I was, staggering up Euston Road, trying to avoid the idiots and degenerates, rushing to get there in time to meet my friend, a nurse whom I've known for nearly twenty years, to have a cup of tea (desperately needed by now), and catch up. That was the highlight of my day. In fact, that was the highlight of my week (I really do need to get out more).

The blackout, the recurrence of BPPV, and various other annoyances (which, on their own, would be just minor stuff to be ignored. Piled on top of each other, however...) really increased my impatience and my grouchiness. But-today is another day, and I had my pity party over the past few days (actually, the past two weeks), and I'm done with wallowing. It's really easy to wallow-but it has no useful purpose. It wastes time. And, really, who knows how much time we've got? 

I had the Epley yesterday, but it didn't work. Symptoms are back today. Yesterday I was told to do nothing after the treatment, so that's what I did: nothing. Today I've got cleaning to do, laundry to do, and I'll do my best to stay upright throughout. It could so easily have been worse. Count my blessings? I'm trying to do that and hang onto the doorframe at the same time.

Vegan January? Alcohol free January? No thank you to both...

 If I'd made any resolutions, I would have broken them already-and it's only the first week of January!

Vegan? No, turkey doesn't count. So that's that then. As for any kind of booze- I don't usually drink anyway. So that doesn't apply to me. I talk about alcohol-but I guess I'm one of  those annoying people who really don't like the stuff. 

Did you know that some people lack the enzyme-whatever enzyme that is-to metabolize alcohol? I didn't know that, either. My GP has been on at me for years to have one or two small glasses of wine (glasses. Not bottles) every evening, because it'll help me sleep-and because it's good for the heart. This is my GP. Maybe she's secretly a wino.

I actually  learned this from a gastroenterologist some years ago; I said that I get seriously unwell after a couple of glasses of anything, I slur my words, I stumble (as if I'm not dizzy enough all the time anyway!). and I sound like I'm drunk-after two drinks. Am I a cheap date, or what? And he explained the enzyme that is lacking in a lot of people who have the same problem. I should be pleased; I'll never be an alcoholic. Kettle Chips, on the other hand...

I've spent an inordinate amount of time being angry-no, enraged-with the cripplers, the morons from where I used to live, the council because they clearly play favorites, and are racist,  incompetent, prejudiced, discriminatory, and abusive. And there's nothing I can do about it.

I approached the Ombudsman-but they can only make suggestions to the Council, and that is where their power ends. I approached the local councillor, who has been great, has taken up my issues, but, in the end, can do precisely nothing. Haringey Council managers are a law unto themselves, and they behave (or misbehave) however they want, without the interference of anyone else. I've reached the end of the road.

I had the chance over the holidays-when everyone else seemed to be preoccupied with Christmas, and New Years, and strikes, and flu, and more variants that could be toxic-to actually sit in the park (in the cold, between the raindrops) to sit and meditate. I just decided that if I want to be happy, I need to let go of the past, and the things, people and events that no longer serve me. It's a good idea, and I'm taking it day by day. Sometimes I'm taking it minute by minute.

You've been with me for awhile, and you know the struggles I'm facing and the resistance I'm having when it comes to change. But I look in the mirror and I think: shit, where did all those grey hairs, the lines, the wrinkles, the sags and bags come from? If I want to accomplish anything of any value-even sharing my challenges with anyone else-I need to shift my little ass and get a move on. Little, by the way, is relative...

This week I have an abdominal ultrasound to see if there's anything there that shouldn't be there. It's coming up to ten years since the double mastectomy and all the cancer treatment. And I think that it took me ten years to appreciate all the things I have: like "life" being the most important one.

Ten years! Some people learn lessons more slowly than others. But we do learn. Eventually.