I have been among the missing-and silent!-for two weeks. Bummer. I wanted to write, but got to the hospital and discovered that the T Mobile dongle doesn't work. So I will be returning it when I get home-as soon as I can walk, that is!!
Where am I? In the hospital-where else? After the twisted pervert park incident, I had to spend the rest of the week getting ready to go into the RNOH (Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital) on the Friday. My friend was due to come down on Thursday, so I didn't have a lot of time. I found myself rushing around like the proverbial blue assed fly-and still didn't accomplish anything, really. This means I finally learned the cost of procrastination.
I did say once that I am the procrastination queen...and, after all these years of panic, anxiety and stress, I finally am beginning to realize how much that has cost me. Between cancer (serious) and the knee (major, but just hideously painful - with a long recovery period), I've had the golden opportunity to reassess my life - and I don't really like what I see. So...when I get out of the hospital and I've recovered enough, I will be an ex-procrastinator!! I am determined; I need to dump all that stress.
Ah, stress...there is nothing like it. I came into the hospital on Friday, and had to sit and wait in the admissions lounge for five and a half hours before the room was ready. Apparently the current occupant wanted to have lunch and a shower before she left! That was, indeed, an omen: a sign of things to come. By the time I reached the ward, I was tired and grumpy-and discovered later that nobody in admissions (regardless of my request) had told my team I was there. They said they'd informed them-but they hadn't. So-no PICC line until Monday. And that was really, really annoying.
What was worse was the fact that, although I had a very small side room, there was no bathroom attached to it. I had to share. So, I went into action: I complained. Vigorously. And loudly. And I kept complaining until the nurses assigned a small toilet/shower room (on Monday, finally). A sign was put on the door, telling everyone that the room was only for room 14, and that for health and safety reasons, nobody else should use it. Not only did everyone carry on and use it, some people left little presents on the floor just to let everyone know they were using it! Nice. They also missed the bowl. So I had to watch where I stepped when I went in, and I went in armed with alcohol wipes.
The whole admission was a total disaster, in my view. I had to explain to every nurse and every nursing shift-and to many doctors who came into the room (I was a curiosity by this time), about CVID: what it stood for, that it is genetic, that I was born with defective genes, that I am not contagious, but everyone else is - especially anyone who is sick, even with the common cold.
I spent so much time talking medical history and CVID, I wish I'd just made a recording of it!! But I didn't really mind: 1 out of every 50,000 (20 out of every million) people is born with the condition, so it is reasonably rare. I even had to correct one of the baby doctors; she called it a disease, I said it is not a disease, but a hereditary condition. I made a lot of friends in the first week (not a bit sarcastic, am I? LOL).
I was poked, and prodded and irradiated, and on Wednesday afternoon, a nurse came in and said I was going to be moved into a private room-that was the rumor, anyway. So I packed. I was ready. Then at around 5:30, it was official-or so I thought. I was moving to the private patients unit. So I waited. And waited. And waited. And I kept pestering the staff to find out what was going on: nobody knew anything. No surprise there!! I felt horribly disappointed, distressed, and depressed. The thought of staying where I was, the risk of infection- too much.
Thursday morning a nurse came in and told me I was to be moved into the private unit-hooray!! But I didn't want to feel the way I'd felt the night before, so I just thought I would wait and see.
Bottom line? I moved into one of the two private patient wards, just down the corridor from the old NHS one. That was around 11:00. It is a lovely room (for a hospital, that is) with a private bathroom. I immediately relaxed; I felt safe for the first time in a week. And here is where it gets interesting.
On Thursday, the staff couldn't do enough for me. The catering staff came in the room with a pot of tea (a china pot), nice cups, nice cutlery, nicely presented. Then lunch arrived, and, again, it was nicely presented-and the food wasn't bad. I was treated as if I was one of the patients whose bills are paid by their insurance company (most private patients have private insurance; only a few have the big bucks needed to self-finance these rooms). Then someone let the staff know I was NHS-and everything changed.
There is a huge divide between the service provided to private patients and NHS patients. Catering staff-and cleaning staff-who are unskilled labor and probably earning no more than minimum wage, practically bow and curtsy to a private patient (just in case someone has the money to be self-financing), but NHS patients are treated like dirt. And that is the sad but absolute truth. And I am not dreaming this, I have seen it firsthand-on the receiving end.
I was told I had to choose meals from the NHS menu. Even though they are cooked in the ward kitchen, the quality and presentation deteriorated markedly-as did the service. I was served last, and always with a smirk and a bit of hostility: I am, after all, an NHS patient. So, yesterday, when a server was particularly rude, I said to him: "I might be a lowly, worthless NHS patient, but at least I have manners". He didn't know what to say, so he left the room.
And there is more. In fact, it gets both worse - and better. And my consultant, Mr. Skinner, is about to come onto the ward, so I will stop for the moment and get back to this later; perhaps I will have even better (or worse!) news for you by then.
I will preface all the rest by saying: it pays to fight for your rights. And I do mean fight. And that is exactly what I did!!
More to come.
Sunday, 18 August 2013
Monday, 5 August 2013
From strange to weird to downright sick, perverted and dangerous
What a week!! Thursday was just about the hottest day of the year so far-and, at the risk of sounding like I have the English disease of constantly moaning about the weather, it was a scorcher! It was in the 90s, and you could have stuck a skewer through me, put me over the road (who needed a fire??), basted me, kept turning until I was done, put an apple in my mouth-and got stuck in. Yum-if you are that way inclined (I'm not, I'm glad to say!!). You get the idea.
Thursday marked ten weeks since my surgery-and I look back and I admit to being happy and relieved that it is now and not ten weeks ago. I would not want to undergo that level of pain (and uncertainty)again. Ever. So I marked the occasion by going to see a psychic. That is the strange and weird part-and I will get back to it in a little bit. There are still more days to cover!!
On Friday afternoon, I went to the hospital to pick up my prostheses, which had just arrived. I call them my "bra stuffers"-because that is exactly what they are. I needed to buy two mastectomy bras so it looks like I actually have a normal chest (mastectomy bras have little pockets for the prostheses so they don't fall out when you bend over. That would be embarrassing!!). So that was an okay day. Once I get over the nasty side effects of the Tamoxifen (hopefully soon), I will have more energy and fewer bouts of hot flushes-so days are okay, but not great. Still, it beats having cancer!!
And this brings us to yesterday (I will get back to Thursday, but not yet. This you need to hear).
Yesterday I decided to go to the Unitarian Church-I will not be able to go for awhile, since I am in the hospital next week, and I will be on crutches for awhile. So I thought I would go and say hello (and goodbye) to people. And-I went a bit early so I could stop for a coffee before the service.
It was nice and quiet, and only 9:30 in the morning, so I thought I would take my coffee into Highbury Park, which was on my way to church. I sat on a bench, minding my own business and enjoying the peace and quiet-and I'll bet you can guess what happened next: sick, perverted and downright dangerous. If you guessed that, right you are-and I didn't think of it at the time, or I would never have sat on my own in the park in such a dodgy area.
I was in mid-swallow, as it were, and this black man rolled up on his bike, stopped in front of me, looked me over, and asked directions to the underground station. I gave him the directions, and he started telling me that I looked "nice", and that he likes older women-especially older white women (his words). How old are you? he asked. I replied it's none of your business. Then he started. Are you married? Yes, I said-now leave me alone, I'm not interested.
He then proceeded to expose himself, telling me that he could make me very satisfied. I told him he's disgusting, and said to put it away, I didn't want him. He kept on, and waved it my way...so I got up and started to leave. I wanted to tell him to f*** off, and make fun of him-but I realized that there was nobody around, I was on a walking stick, this man (maybe in his early 30s, whatever-old enough to know better) could knock me to the ground and I was too fragile to defend myself...and, add to that, the guy was most definitely a sick pervert and potentially dangerous. Definitely a perv and nutter, and I wanted to escape as quickly as I could. So I used my stick and strode purposefully to the exit, alert to the fact that he could come up behind me. He kept calling for me to come back, and kept asking my name. I just kept going-and in about two minutes I was crossing the road. I only looked back when a bus rolled past me and I was about 100 yards from the entrance to the park. He wasn't to be found-thankfully.
That could have been a really dangerous encounter. He could have been on drugs, could have been psychotic-he could have had friends with him, and I would have had no chance. I just withered at him, stood up and walked away-the best thing I could have done, in my view. Actually, the best thing I could have done would have been to drink my coffee while walking down the road and avoiding the solitary park altogether. I won't make that mistake again-but then, I won't be able to get to church for at least six weeks (the next three will be spent in the hospital. Hopefully there won't be pervs in there, too!!!
I didn't say anything to anyone at church about what happened. There was no point, after all. So I hope this week gets better; what a way to start a week!!!!
And that brings me back to Thursday and the psychic. I used to date a man who was a medium-or so he said. He was just an idiot. Not a psychic, or a medium: an idiot. Obviously that was a glitch in my relationship resume, and it didn't last long. But he did introduce me to some psychics-most of whom got nothing right at all. So when it came to seeing this man, I was doubtful-but I went anyway, just to see if he got anything at all. Surprisingly, he did.
Bill said he had my mother there... a few people who didn't ring any bells at all, got my love for animals...it was interesting, because there were some hits among the misses-but a lot of misses. He was telling me I love gardening (eeek-not in a million years), and that I like to sing (that part is true), and that I love hymns (whaaat??) and have a fascination for nuns (pardon??). But he did get parts of my personality spot on- and picked up on the cancer (I hadn't told him) and that I will be having more surgery (I hadn't told him that, either). It was an interesting experience-especially when he asked if my cousin (I actually gave his name and asked Bill if he picked up on anything) had died of very bad chest or heart pain. My cousin was a soldier who died by being shot in the chest-and there was no way he would have known that, so I found that was - shall we say, different?
I'm glad I decided to go to see Bill-and I might go again at some point, to see what else he picks up. He also said I should be doing what he's doing...altogether a somewhat rewarding visit, I think!!
And this week I need to get ready to go into the hospital, and to finish getting my place ready for my friend's arrival on Thursday. I'm nervous. I'm apprehensive. I got over one nasty surgery only to have another-although this one is elective, and the last one came as a big surprise!! My computer will be coming with me, so I will be blogging while I'm there (not like there will be anything else to do until they operate), and hopefully I won't be bothered by another set of nutters. I've seen off enough nutters!
I suppose it's asking too much to just have a quiet life!!
Thursday marked ten weeks since my surgery-and I look back and I admit to being happy and relieved that it is now and not ten weeks ago. I would not want to undergo that level of pain (and uncertainty)again. Ever. So I marked the occasion by going to see a psychic. That is the strange and weird part-and I will get back to it in a little bit. There are still more days to cover!!
On Friday afternoon, I went to the hospital to pick up my prostheses, which had just arrived. I call them my "bra stuffers"-because that is exactly what they are. I needed to buy two mastectomy bras so it looks like I actually have a normal chest (mastectomy bras have little pockets for the prostheses so they don't fall out when you bend over. That would be embarrassing!!). So that was an okay day. Once I get over the nasty side effects of the Tamoxifen (hopefully soon), I will have more energy and fewer bouts of hot flushes-so days are okay, but not great. Still, it beats having cancer!!
And this brings us to yesterday (I will get back to Thursday, but not yet. This you need to hear).
Yesterday I decided to go to the Unitarian Church-I will not be able to go for awhile, since I am in the hospital next week, and I will be on crutches for awhile. So I thought I would go and say hello (and goodbye) to people. And-I went a bit early so I could stop for a coffee before the service.
It was nice and quiet, and only 9:30 in the morning, so I thought I would take my coffee into Highbury Park, which was on my way to church. I sat on a bench, minding my own business and enjoying the peace and quiet-and I'll bet you can guess what happened next: sick, perverted and downright dangerous. If you guessed that, right you are-and I didn't think of it at the time, or I would never have sat on my own in the park in such a dodgy area.
I was in mid-swallow, as it were, and this black man rolled up on his bike, stopped in front of me, looked me over, and asked directions to the underground station. I gave him the directions, and he started telling me that I looked "nice", and that he likes older women-especially older white women (his words). How old are you? he asked. I replied it's none of your business. Then he started. Are you married? Yes, I said-now leave me alone, I'm not interested.
He then proceeded to expose himself, telling me that he could make me very satisfied. I told him he's disgusting, and said to put it away, I didn't want him. He kept on, and waved it my way...so I got up and started to leave. I wanted to tell him to f*** off, and make fun of him-but I realized that there was nobody around, I was on a walking stick, this man (maybe in his early 30s, whatever-old enough to know better) could knock me to the ground and I was too fragile to defend myself...and, add to that, the guy was most definitely a sick pervert and potentially dangerous. Definitely a perv and nutter, and I wanted to escape as quickly as I could. So I used my stick and strode purposefully to the exit, alert to the fact that he could come up behind me. He kept calling for me to come back, and kept asking my name. I just kept going-and in about two minutes I was crossing the road. I only looked back when a bus rolled past me and I was about 100 yards from the entrance to the park. He wasn't to be found-thankfully.
That could have been a really dangerous encounter. He could have been on drugs, could have been psychotic-he could have had friends with him, and I would have had no chance. I just withered at him, stood up and walked away-the best thing I could have done, in my view. Actually, the best thing I could have done would have been to drink my coffee while walking down the road and avoiding the solitary park altogether. I won't make that mistake again-but then, I won't be able to get to church for at least six weeks (the next three will be spent in the hospital. Hopefully there won't be pervs in there, too!!!
I didn't say anything to anyone at church about what happened. There was no point, after all. So I hope this week gets better; what a way to start a week!!!!
And that brings me back to Thursday and the psychic. I used to date a man who was a medium-or so he said. He was just an idiot. Not a psychic, or a medium: an idiot. Obviously that was a glitch in my relationship resume, and it didn't last long. But he did introduce me to some psychics-most of whom got nothing right at all. So when it came to seeing this man, I was doubtful-but I went anyway, just to see if he got anything at all. Surprisingly, he did.
Bill said he had my mother there... a few people who didn't ring any bells at all, got my love for animals...it was interesting, because there were some hits among the misses-but a lot of misses. He was telling me I love gardening (eeek-not in a million years), and that I like to sing (that part is true), and that I love hymns (whaaat??) and have a fascination for nuns (pardon??). But he did get parts of my personality spot on- and picked up on the cancer (I hadn't told him) and that I will be having more surgery (I hadn't told him that, either). It was an interesting experience-especially when he asked if my cousin (I actually gave his name and asked Bill if he picked up on anything) had died of very bad chest or heart pain. My cousin was a soldier who died by being shot in the chest-and there was no way he would have known that, so I found that was - shall we say, different?
I'm glad I decided to go to see Bill-and I might go again at some point, to see what else he picks up. He also said I should be doing what he's doing...altogether a somewhat rewarding visit, I think!!
And this week I need to get ready to go into the hospital, and to finish getting my place ready for my friend's arrival on Thursday. I'm nervous. I'm apprehensive. I got over one nasty surgery only to have another-although this one is elective, and the last one came as a big surprise!! My computer will be coming with me, so I will be blogging while I'm there (not like there will be anything else to do until they operate), and hopefully I won't be bothered by another set of nutters. I've seen off enough nutters!
I suppose it's asking too much to just have a quiet life!!
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
That was the week that was...and wasn't
I haven't died yet. I have melted, wilted, and left puddles of sweat all over London-but I haven't died. Pretty good, I'd say-except for the sweat.
This is the first time since I started this blog that I have taken so long to write-I've missed it, too. But the last 11 or 12 days have been a bit tough. And I seem to have developed the British disease-not the rude, obnoxious braindead stuff, thank goodness, but the irresistible need to bang on constantly about the weather. It's always the weather-or football-everyone seems preoccupied with one or the other. Go figure. And everyone I know back home will laugh when I say that it has been a brutal two weeks, because it has been in the upper 80s-and 90s-and that is unheard of here. People can tell you when we had a real summer: 1976, way before I got here, and 2006 (very hot). I said to someone the other day that in 2025 everyone will be saying "do you remember the summer of 2013?". Funny. Boring, but funny.
Add to all this that I never tan. I stopped looking at people's chests-a good thing, because I'm not a perv, I just looked and felt a bit envious-but I have noticed people with huge boobs and huge stomachs-and that's just the men!! Some look like they have swallowed not only the football, but the whole team. It's amazing how sunlight and heat create creepiness...and I do not tan. I turn the color of beetroot, suffer (never in silence, are you kidding?), then peel...and then I revert back to being so pale that I look like I am ready for embalming. Ewww...there is no justice.
Well, I dropped myself in the pile of poo this week-in a big way. And, between the Tamoxifen's side effects and the heat, all I did was what was absolutely necessary: the doctors, the dentist, pre-admission tests at the orthopaedic hospital (I go in at the end of next week), and getting the house ready for my friend to have her holiday from cats, children and her family. She gets to clean and cook, but also to shop and go to museums. A good deal for both of us...
I dropped myself in it because I am indirectly responsible for Andy (the minister) sacking David (he of the let's do a mastectomy film and put it on YouTube) as pastoral associate. Apparently, David had guidelines he was supposed to follow-and he ignored them. Add to this the fact that, when he was visiting, he spent all his time telling me about his depression, suicidal tendencies, and bipolar disorder-for which he takes no medication. So Andy said, that is it, no more. I think he's right to sack the man (it was a voluntary job, unpaid) . Now David is threatening to sue Andy for defamation, and he tells me that I am responsible, and he is spreading the most incredibly nasty (and untrue) stories to anyone who will listen. I had the misfortune to take a call from David last week, and he was very threatening-I advised him (forcefully, I might add) to abandon his vicious and sick vendetta...but he won't do that. Instead, he wants his ten pints of blood. If he can't get Andy's-mine will do.
I think this experience has finally taught me about the value of setting boundaries. My ex-husband used to say that if there was one nutcase in all of London, he would find me (I did remind him that I married him, and that didn't go down very well...but I knew what he meant). Is it empathy? Sympathy? Compassion? Total stupidity? Perhaps a bit of all of the above.
Now I just shut up, and I don't offer sympathy to anyone. Just-shut up, keep my head down, and keep my radar topped up so that if I see a wacko I don't get tempted to be sympathetic. Instead, I will give in to the temptation to run a mile-in the opposite direction!!
There will always be people around who have lost their marbles. The trick is to recognize them-and to run like Hell!!!
Anyway, I'm back. I should probably invest in a mask...
This is the first time since I started this blog that I have taken so long to write-I've missed it, too. But the last 11 or 12 days have been a bit tough. And I seem to have developed the British disease-not the rude, obnoxious braindead stuff, thank goodness, but the irresistible need to bang on constantly about the weather. It's always the weather-or football-everyone seems preoccupied with one or the other. Go figure. And everyone I know back home will laugh when I say that it has been a brutal two weeks, because it has been in the upper 80s-and 90s-and that is unheard of here. People can tell you when we had a real summer: 1976, way before I got here, and 2006 (very hot). I said to someone the other day that in 2025 everyone will be saying "do you remember the summer of 2013?". Funny. Boring, but funny.
Add to all this that I never tan. I stopped looking at people's chests-a good thing, because I'm not a perv, I just looked and felt a bit envious-but I have noticed people with huge boobs and huge stomachs-and that's just the men!! Some look like they have swallowed not only the football, but the whole team. It's amazing how sunlight and heat create creepiness...and I do not tan. I turn the color of beetroot, suffer (never in silence, are you kidding?), then peel...and then I revert back to being so pale that I look like I am ready for embalming. Ewww...there is no justice.
Well, I dropped myself in the pile of poo this week-in a big way. And, between the Tamoxifen's side effects and the heat, all I did was what was absolutely necessary: the doctors, the dentist, pre-admission tests at the orthopaedic hospital (I go in at the end of next week), and getting the house ready for my friend to have her holiday from cats, children and her family. She gets to clean and cook, but also to shop and go to museums. A good deal for both of us...
I dropped myself in it because I am indirectly responsible for Andy (the minister) sacking David (he of the let's do a mastectomy film and put it on YouTube) as pastoral associate. Apparently, David had guidelines he was supposed to follow-and he ignored them. Add to this the fact that, when he was visiting, he spent all his time telling me about his depression, suicidal tendencies, and bipolar disorder-for which he takes no medication. So Andy said, that is it, no more. I think he's right to sack the man (it was a voluntary job, unpaid) . Now David is threatening to sue Andy for defamation, and he tells me that I am responsible, and he is spreading the most incredibly nasty (and untrue) stories to anyone who will listen. I had the misfortune to take a call from David last week, and he was very threatening-I advised him (forcefully, I might add) to abandon his vicious and sick vendetta...but he won't do that. Instead, he wants his ten pints of blood. If he can't get Andy's-mine will do.
I think this experience has finally taught me about the value of setting boundaries. My ex-husband used to say that if there was one nutcase in all of London, he would find me (I did remind him that I married him, and that didn't go down very well...but I knew what he meant). Is it empathy? Sympathy? Compassion? Total stupidity? Perhaps a bit of all of the above.
Now I just shut up, and I don't offer sympathy to anyone. Just-shut up, keep my head down, and keep my radar topped up so that if I see a wacko I don't get tempted to be sympathetic. Instead, I will give in to the temptation to run a mile-in the opposite direction!!
There will always be people around who have lost their marbles. The trick is to recognize them-and to run like Hell!!!
Anyway, I'm back. I should probably invest in a mask...
Friday, 19 July 2013
And another thing-of vital importance
It's only vitally important if you are a Star Trek fan.
Tomorrow at the Unitarian Church in Islington a group of Star Trek fans (including Reverend Andy, and you would never find that with the Baptists, would you?) are gathering to watch old episodes of Star Trek.
Is there some deep, profound reason for this meeting? Of course not. We just like Star Trek (Spock is my all time favorite, in case you are interested. Or not. But there it is anyway).
It should be all good fun: no air conditioning, of course, but good fun anyway. I need to find my "beam me up, Scotty" t shirt.
What can one say? Easy: live long and prosper....
Tomorrow at the Unitarian Church in Islington a group of Star Trek fans (including Reverend Andy, and you would never find that with the Baptists, would you?) are gathering to watch old episodes of Star Trek.
Is there some deep, profound reason for this meeting? Of course not. We just like Star Trek (Spock is my all time favorite, in case you are interested. Or not. But there it is anyway).
It should be all good fun: no air conditioning, of course, but good fun anyway. I need to find my "beam me up, Scotty" t shirt.
What can one say? Easy: live long and prosper....
Boiling, baking and frying in Britain
I know that my friends in the US will be laughing at me when I say that we have had a heat wave-and by heat wave, I mean that for over a week it has been well over 80F-and into the low 90s. Compared to New York, and Florida, it's probably wintry!! But here, in the land of no (or very little) air conditioning, it is like being fried in Hell. No kidding. I would say that you can find me by following a trail of sweat, but that goes for just about everyone else, too.
You can find me by following a trail of tea and coffee-my balance has gone out the window with the changes in temperature and barometric pressure. Add to that the really strong sunlight, and I have a lot of trouble seeing six inches in front of me. It probably makes for good entertainment when I am trying to walk outside!!
I've been doing the doctor thing all week-and also been doing the cancer centre thing, too. I saw my Macmillan nurse (Fiona) yesterday, and she was just great. These women are so well trained to deal with all kinds of questions-I recommend any cancer patients contacting Macmillan as soon as they are diagnosed. I waited ages after surgery to do that-now I wish I had made the call sooner.
It is eight weeks today since I had the surgery. I wouldn't exactly call that a welcome anniversary-but I'm glad it is today and not eight weeks ago. I wouldn't like to ever have to go through that again. Ever. And, actually, I won't have to!! So there is always a silver lining to every tragedy. Sometimes it takes a lot of looking before you find it.
I looked yesterday. I came back from seeing Fiona, and I made a big mug of coffee (I drink tea everywhere else; English people make coffee that can strip the paint off walls and deep clean your tiled floor. Probably dissolve it, too). Then-I looked.
Most of the swelling and redness has gone, and I am left with some puckering and swelling in the corners, underneath the armpits. There is, obviously, a huge scar from one armpit across my chest, and it stops under the other armpit. When I saw Margaret (my GP, whom I will now call "Doc", since I am meeting a lot of Margarets in the cancer centre), we discussed reconstruction. And it will be risky for me because of the immune deficiency: the possibility of infection is very high. So I have until December to consider my options.
At the moment, I am cleaning. I get depressed, I clean. So my place will be very clear before I go into the hospital for stage 2: my architectural redesign of my knee (in other words, a probable knee replacement). I really prefer the term "architectural redesign"; it sounds better than knee replacement-and I won't know if that is what will be done until I wake in the recovery room. The extent of the damage will not be obvious until Mr. Skinner opens up the leg and takes a look. So-no idea. I just asked him not to remove my leg-and he thought that was funny. Good thing I know him for a long time: he knows when I am joking. Usually.
My friend from up north will have a London holiday from her family-and I will have another hospital holiday. Hospital food: yum. I will probably lose the kilo I've gained (under duress) and then I will be lectured again. Never mind. At least I will have a rest from the neighbor from Hell upstairs. Like I said: silver lining.
That is one of many things that cancer-and the fear of dying from cancer-has taught me: be less critical and judgmental. Cynicism has been part of my personality for as long as I can remember-and old habits die hard. I'm working on it, though. I'm working on it.
I'm going to see a homeopath on Monday. I spoke with my friend Dani, who is an acupuncturist-I see her rarely now, since I haven't been travelling much since 2010. But we spoke about homeopathy and all the various odd ailments I tend to pick up (thanks to CVID). I will happily post after the consultation and give you my take on it all. But I had homeopathy many years ago, and I have to say that it works on many things. And Anil is a fourth generation homeopath: he is very experienced and well trained, not like the people who take a weekend course and call themselves professionals. So-I'll give you the heads up next week.
By September I will have had all the surgery and consultations I can handle! I will only need repairs to my cartilage on my left knee-but that will be done in the spring, and by keyhole surgery. I am not allowed to fall down again after mid-August-so that will be funny, being on crutches and having no balance system to help.
Like I said last time: I may be down, but I am not out. I may be baking, but I am not broken. When I go (hopefully in about 30 or 40+ years), they can put that on my headstone.
I would say I'm like the Energizer bunny-but he turns around in circles, makes a lot of noise-and isn't he really, really annoying!!
You can find me by following a trail of tea and coffee-my balance has gone out the window with the changes in temperature and barometric pressure. Add to that the really strong sunlight, and I have a lot of trouble seeing six inches in front of me. It probably makes for good entertainment when I am trying to walk outside!!
I've been doing the doctor thing all week-and also been doing the cancer centre thing, too. I saw my Macmillan nurse (Fiona) yesterday, and she was just great. These women are so well trained to deal with all kinds of questions-I recommend any cancer patients contacting Macmillan as soon as they are diagnosed. I waited ages after surgery to do that-now I wish I had made the call sooner.
It is eight weeks today since I had the surgery. I wouldn't exactly call that a welcome anniversary-but I'm glad it is today and not eight weeks ago. I wouldn't like to ever have to go through that again. Ever. And, actually, I won't have to!! So there is always a silver lining to every tragedy. Sometimes it takes a lot of looking before you find it.
I looked yesterday. I came back from seeing Fiona, and I made a big mug of coffee (I drink tea everywhere else; English people make coffee that can strip the paint off walls and deep clean your tiled floor. Probably dissolve it, too). Then-I looked.
Most of the swelling and redness has gone, and I am left with some puckering and swelling in the corners, underneath the armpits. There is, obviously, a huge scar from one armpit across my chest, and it stops under the other armpit. When I saw Margaret (my GP, whom I will now call "Doc", since I am meeting a lot of Margarets in the cancer centre), we discussed reconstruction. And it will be risky for me because of the immune deficiency: the possibility of infection is very high. So I have until December to consider my options.
At the moment, I am cleaning. I get depressed, I clean. So my place will be very clear before I go into the hospital for stage 2: my architectural redesign of my knee (in other words, a probable knee replacement). I really prefer the term "architectural redesign"; it sounds better than knee replacement-and I won't know if that is what will be done until I wake in the recovery room. The extent of the damage will not be obvious until Mr. Skinner opens up the leg and takes a look. So-no idea. I just asked him not to remove my leg-and he thought that was funny. Good thing I know him for a long time: he knows when I am joking. Usually.
My friend from up north will have a London holiday from her family-and I will have another hospital holiday. Hospital food: yum. I will probably lose the kilo I've gained (under duress) and then I will be lectured again. Never mind. At least I will have a rest from the neighbor from Hell upstairs. Like I said: silver lining.
That is one of many things that cancer-and the fear of dying from cancer-has taught me: be less critical and judgmental. Cynicism has been part of my personality for as long as I can remember-and old habits die hard. I'm working on it, though. I'm working on it.
I'm going to see a homeopath on Monday. I spoke with my friend Dani, who is an acupuncturist-I see her rarely now, since I haven't been travelling much since 2010. But we spoke about homeopathy and all the various odd ailments I tend to pick up (thanks to CVID). I will happily post after the consultation and give you my take on it all. But I had homeopathy many years ago, and I have to say that it works on many things. And Anil is a fourth generation homeopath: he is very experienced and well trained, not like the people who take a weekend course and call themselves professionals. So-I'll give you the heads up next week.
By September I will have had all the surgery and consultations I can handle! I will only need repairs to my cartilage on my left knee-but that will be done in the spring, and by keyhole surgery. I am not allowed to fall down again after mid-August-so that will be funny, being on crutches and having no balance system to help.
Like I said last time: I may be down, but I am not out. I may be baking, but I am not broken. When I go (hopefully in about 30 or 40+ years), they can put that on my headstone.
I would say I'm like the Energizer bunny-but he turns around in circles, makes a lot of noise-and isn't he really, really annoying!!
Sunday, 14 July 2013
Close encounters of the weird kind
I still haven't died. And-I haven't been bone idle, either. We've had a heat wave. It's been in the 80s-and up to 90+- in the last two weeks, and continues to be so hot I feel like someone has put me in a toaster while I wasn't looking.
I am not good with heat. If it goes above 68F I want to leave town. Or stand in a cold shower until it gets cooler. And my hair frizzes, I melt...well, you get the idea. Add to that the fact that my balance and vision go completely out the window-and it's no wonder I am grumpy and I don't see well enough to go online. But-this is England, and this heat will pass-and then everyone (me included) will be moaning about the cold and wet. I've been here too long; I seem to have contracted the British disease of constantly moaning about the weather!
The thing is, once we have something that looks like sunshine-and heat, too-everyone calls in sick, and people swarm to the parks and strip off to bake, fry, turn beet red...and people who should know better and never show any flesh show entirely too much. I was walking down the street, minding my own business, trying to stay out of everyone's way (as I do), and this huge woman came hurling toward me. I do mean huge: she was like a brick outhouse (over here they say something else, but I am being polite. For once). Cockney accent (which I understand, after all these years). Swearing like a trooper. Skinny top, no bra, and breasts like cow's udders. The very person who should never go braless-and there she was, swinging in the wind. If I hadn't swerved, she would have hit me with one of her breasts and probably knocked me through a glass window. Oh-and she had tattoos. Everywhere- at least, everywhere you could see. From wrists to shoulders, she was covered. I had to avert my eyes-but I really wanted to see what was printed all over her arms! Really-she was like a longshoreman with tits. And a newspaper vendor standing near me said-loudly-it's enough to put me off my tea!! I laughed so hard, I nearly fell over.
Did I mention she had some man with her? Tattoos. Big mouth. And-a gut that looked like he had swallowed a basketball. In fact, it looked like he had swallowed the whole team. Actually, it would have been hilarious if it hadn't been so pathetic.
Tempers are very short here at the best of times. But in central London yesterday, fights were breaking out. Of course, that happens at every football match-but it was happening in the park, and in the street, and on the bus. I was glad to get home and close the door behind me. Let them all kill each other, but leave me out of it.
It is going to be hot like this for at least another week or so-and I will tell you, it's very difficult for me...but I just keep going, keep walking, even though I nearly fall over - and I keep sweating, which isn't a good look, trust me!!
I may be down, but I'm not out. I'm baking, but not done yet. It takes more than 90F to keep me from doing what I need to do. At least I don't have to suffer from cow's udders-that must be really painful, especially in high winds!!
I am not good with heat. If it goes above 68F I want to leave town. Or stand in a cold shower until it gets cooler. And my hair frizzes, I melt...well, you get the idea. Add to that the fact that my balance and vision go completely out the window-and it's no wonder I am grumpy and I don't see well enough to go online. But-this is England, and this heat will pass-and then everyone (me included) will be moaning about the cold and wet. I've been here too long; I seem to have contracted the British disease of constantly moaning about the weather!
The thing is, once we have something that looks like sunshine-and heat, too-everyone calls in sick, and people swarm to the parks and strip off to bake, fry, turn beet red...and people who should know better and never show any flesh show entirely too much. I was walking down the street, minding my own business, trying to stay out of everyone's way (as I do), and this huge woman came hurling toward me. I do mean huge: she was like a brick outhouse (over here they say something else, but I am being polite. For once). Cockney accent (which I understand, after all these years). Swearing like a trooper. Skinny top, no bra, and breasts like cow's udders. The very person who should never go braless-and there she was, swinging in the wind. If I hadn't swerved, she would have hit me with one of her breasts and probably knocked me through a glass window. Oh-and she had tattoos. Everywhere- at least, everywhere you could see. From wrists to shoulders, she was covered. I had to avert my eyes-but I really wanted to see what was printed all over her arms! Really-she was like a longshoreman with tits. And a newspaper vendor standing near me said-loudly-it's enough to put me off my tea!! I laughed so hard, I nearly fell over.
Did I mention she had some man with her? Tattoos. Big mouth. And-a gut that looked like he had swallowed a basketball. In fact, it looked like he had swallowed the whole team. Actually, it would have been hilarious if it hadn't been so pathetic.
Tempers are very short here at the best of times. But in central London yesterday, fights were breaking out. Of course, that happens at every football match-but it was happening in the park, and in the street, and on the bus. I was glad to get home and close the door behind me. Let them all kill each other, but leave me out of it.
It is going to be hot like this for at least another week or so-and I will tell you, it's very difficult for me...but I just keep going, keep walking, even though I nearly fall over - and I keep sweating, which isn't a good look, trust me!!
I may be down, but I'm not out. I'm baking, but not done yet. It takes more than 90F to keep me from doing what I need to do. At least I don't have to suffer from cow's udders-that must be really painful, especially in high winds!!
Sunday, 7 July 2013
Bisphosphonates, saggy bums, and droopy other bits
I haven't died-or been abducted, or been back in hospital, risking them killing me this time. But-when it takes this long to get back to my blog, you know that something has gone very wrong.
First things first: the last post-which, I understand, repeated about half a dozen times. Sorry! I was at the library, as usual-and the library computers are used by everyone. Apart from the fact that they take so much time to power up, you could eat a five course meal and do the washing up before you can get online, the school kids use them. They also eat while online-so there are always interesting materials on the keyboards: peanut butter, jam, bread crumbs, coke (the kind you drink, not the other kind-at least, not that I can see). There are other biologicals of unknown origin-and I mean, unknown-and very sticky. So the keys stick. And I always use Purell, the hand sanitizer of choice of the hospitals, afterward. I use so much Purell, I think the stock must have tripled!!
As difficult as it is to use my own laptop, I am doing that from now on-nobody needs to hear all the swearing when I hit the wrong key-at least, my computer is clean. And fast (ish). No more gooey gunge to scrape off!!
I was going to get on and fix the blog after the weekend-but I ended up doing the hospital rounds again, as I do every few months. The good people at the Royal London decided to give me an intravenous injection of something called "bisphosphonates" (try saying that quickly after a couple of glasses of wine!); these protect the bones against osteoporosis. This is what happens when you are born with CVID: you get all kinds of interesting illnesses, and really strange (and lethal) medications. I suspect that, since they failed to kill me with gentamicin (they came close), they figured they would give me the bis-whatsits. The side effects, according to the insert that comes in the box with the drug, says "feeling flu-ish, aching bones and joints". Huh.
I always read the inserts now. I want to know what to expect, even if it never happens. Of course, it would be a good idea to read the information before taking the drug. Did I? Of course not. So I spent the next three days in bed, in excruciating pain, having a terrible headache, chills, and feeling like my bones were going to explode. And that's what they call feeling "Flu-ish"!
By yesterday I was fed up with feeling sick, and I had to go to Covent Garden, to the Apple Store, to have my IPhone fixed. I was well enough to get there-and I couldn't believe how crowded it was. Another duh moment: Saturdays are shopping days. Ick. All kinds of people were crashing into me. Really, I should invest in shoulder and knee pads! Not a lovely look but at least I wouldn't be bruised.
In case you wondered, that is where the saggy bums come in. It has been really hot here, so people are no longer covering up. And some of them should do exactly that. They sag, they droop, and there are men walking around who have guts the size of bowling balls hanging over their belts. And they call us the fattest people in the West! I knew that would make you smile: the Brits are the fattest in Europe, and, per capita, they are at least as fat as we are. I had a good look around-as I was trying to stay upright, of course-and I can honestly say that when the Brits call us obese, the words "pot", "kettle" and "black" spring immediately to mind. That knowledge should make all Americans smile.
And I always end up sitting next to one of them-I'm surprised I still have two functioning legs!!
Now here's a question: why do men always check out the chest area whenever they look at a woman? They don't think we notice-but we do. Face first (occasionally) -then straight to the chest. But when we look at men, we look at the face, we don't immediately stare at the groin. That would be rude. We would call those people perverts.
There is food for thought until next time-which will be sooner, rather than later. I'm stopping before I throw this machine out the window. Besides-it's 80F, and both machine and I are frying.
.
First things first: the last post-which, I understand, repeated about half a dozen times. Sorry! I was at the library, as usual-and the library computers are used by everyone. Apart from the fact that they take so much time to power up, you could eat a five course meal and do the washing up before you can get online, the school kids use them. They also eat while online-so there are always interesting materials on the keyboards: peanut butter, jam, bread crumbs, coke (the kind you drink, not the other kind-at least, not that I can see). There are other biologicals of unknown origin-and I mean, unknown-and very sticky. So the keys stick. And I always use Purell, the hand sanitizer of choice of the hospitals, afterward. I use so much Purell, I think the stock must have tripled!!
As difficult as it is to use my own laptop, I am doing that from now on-nobody needs to hear all the swearing when I hit the wrong key-at least, my computer is clean. And fast (ish). No more gooey gunge to scrape off!!
I was going to get on and fix the blog after the weekend-but I ended up doing the hospital rounds again, as I do every few months. The good people at the Royal London decided to give me an intravenous injection of something called "bisphosphonates" (try saying that quickly after a couple of glasses of wine!); these protect the bones against osteoporosis. This is what happens when you are born with CVID: you get all kinds of interesting illnesses, and really strange (and lethal) medications. I suspect that, since they failed to kill me with gentamicin (they came close), they figured they would give me the bis-whatsits. The side effects, according to the insert that comes in the box with the drug, says "feeling flu-ish, aching bones and joints". Huh.
I always read the inserts now. I want to know what to expect, even if it never happens. Of course, it would be a good idea to read the information before taking the drug. Did I? Of course not. So I spent the next three days in bed, in excruciating pain, having a terrible headache, chills, and feeling like my bones were going to explode. And that's what they call feeling "Flu-ish"!
By yesterday I was fed up with feeling sick, and I had to go to Covent Garden, to the Apple Store, to have my IPhone fixed. I was well enough to get there-and I couldn't believe how crowded it was. Another duh moment: Saturdays are shopping days. Ick. All kinds of people were crashing into me. Really, I should invest in shoulder and knee pads! Not a lovely look but at least I wouldn't be bruised.
In case you wondered, that is where the saggy bums come in. It has been really hot here, so people are no longer covering up. And some of them should do exactly that. They sag, they droop, and there are men walking around who have guts the size of bowling balls hanging over their belts. And they call us the fattest people in the West! I knew that would make you smile: the Brits are the fattest in Europe, and, per capita, they are at least as fat as we are. I had a good look around-as I was trying to stay upright, of course-and I can honestly say that when the Brits call us obese, the words "pot", "kettle" and "black" spring immediately to mind. That knowledge should make all Americans smile.
And I always end up sitting next to one of them-I'm surprised I still have two functioning legs!!
Now here's a question: why do men always check out the chest area whenever they look at a woman? They don't think we notice-but we do. Face first (occasionally) -then straight to the chest. But when we look at men, we look at the face, we don't immediately stare at the groin. That would be rude. We would call those people perverts.
There is food for thought until next time-which will be sooner, rather than later. I'm stopping before I throw this machine out the window. Besides-it's 80F, and both machine and I are frying.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)