How to Speak Idiot - Part 3

I got out of the hospital on Good Friday-still alive, so it really was a good Friday.

My total of cannulas was eight. Number 7 broke the vein on Thursday night, and the docs wouldn't let me off with two less doses of antibiotics, so on Friday morning another cannula was inserted. I don't have any good veins left, so I'd better stay healthy-who knows what veins they will be searching for if the ones in both arms don't recover...

I had a severe reaction to something on Friday night-probably the accumulation of what the hospital considers "food"- and my arm became very swollen and I was in terrible pain everywhere. So I decided to go to bed. I rang my sister to tell her I'm still alive-and that was it, I was flat out until yesterday. I did get up to clean the kitchen, do laundry, go out and buy real food-but apart from that, I stayed home. My balance (such as it is) and vision (ditto) paid the price for the strong medication, and I felt like I had regressed two years-I was crashing into things and falling over. So bed was the best place for me.

I went out yesterday-just for a short walk-and some fat Neanderthal crashed straight into me and nearly knocked me in front of a bus. "Sorry, love", he said-I so wanted to call him a fat brain-dead Neanderthal-I really had to hold my tongue. These days, biological males seem to love beating up women-especially the ones who aren't able to fight back. I wonder if this popular, female-hating behavior exists across the Atlantic. I would be very depressed if it is happening so often there, too.

This country (Britain) was founded on genocide, slavery, racism, elitism and cruelty. Americans tend to either not know this fact or forget the world history we learned in school. Since the first person whacked someone weaker (a bigger club, no doubt) and declared himself king, all kinds of abuse have been the state of play here. I see it all the time-not just with the fat Neanderthal, but in other ways, too. Yesterday on the news there was a story about students coming to school with weapons: knives of all sizes, clubs-and axes. Axes? Who brings an axe to school-and where does one hide it? Teachers are afraid to say anything to the students because students will just stab (or beat) them.

I can't help but wonder where societies went so wrong-how did things get so out of hand? And why is it that Americans seem to think that this country is like something out of Four Weddings and a Funeral or Downton Abbey? The myth of British politeness, manners, intelligence-that is a myth, and nothing could be further than the truth. And the only way people will get this is to hear it from someone who has lived here for many years-not some rich actress who names her child after a fruit, or some fading pop star with a fake English accent, but someone who has been part of the workforce for years, and who has had her eyes opened (sadly) to the way things really, truly are. It's sad but true that this country has gone down so far down the toilet that all it needs is one final flush. Even my very English friends (I do have those-but they obviously don't know about this blog!) admit this fact freely.

Do I feel the slightest bit guilty about taking the mickey out of the Brits? Aw, hell, no, not a bit. I just tell it like it is-someone has to do that, or the myth lives on. These guys are the products of centuries of inbreeding, they are descended from a long line of thieves, rapists, murderers and lunatics-and that is just the royal family, sucking the life blood out of the taxpayers while people are dying, waiting for transplants and medication they will never get. We think the American system is unfair-and it is, because if it was the least bit fair I would be able to go home and get treatment I need at home, and beat it out of this dump so fast the door wouldn't hit me in the backside on the way out. But life isn't like that, so here I remain, telling you what is happening here so that you all know the truth.

And now it is nearly a week since I got back, and life begins to return to something that looks like normal. Honestly, I didn't even hit the Kettle Chips since I got out - I had so much while I was inside that I am more than a bit chipped out. I did have a lot of chicken soup, though. My friend tells me that chicken soup cures just about everything. I had so much chicken soup this past week that I am in serious danger of laying an egg.

How to speak in idiot-Part 2

Ah, what a joy-hanging out with the mentally deficient (also known as "brain-dead"), culturally dysfunctional, rude, obnoxious, arrogant (for no discernible reason), verbally incontinent, emotionally stunted, completely obtuse-and now we can add completely incompetent. Yes- it's the Brits, you got it in one.

There was a big deal about having me get to the hospital by 5pm-or they wouldn't hold the bed. So I got there at 3:45-and they still didn't hold the bed. Idiots. So I had to wait in a little room for three hours until they sorted the whole thing out. I very nearly left; I said I'm not waiting around all night for them to figure it out. I had a clean (ish) bed by 7pm. The first cannula went in at 9pm. And it was all downhill from there. By the next night I was moved into the bed I was supposed to have when I got to the hospital on Friday. Hmmm...doesn't do much for confidence in the system, does it?

And-it's taken me this long to be able to post, because-this building is less than four years old, has fifteen floors, and-has no Wi-Fi. Who builds a brand, spanking new building and forgets to add Wi-Fi? What can anyone say? This building was built to British standard. So was the Titanic.

I'm on cannula number 6. For some reason, my veins (very tiny and terrible at the best of times) kept breaking. So I finally-after the third one blew my vein after less than two days-went to the senior charge nurse and suggested (politely, naturally. I can be very polite when I want something) that we use a very small cannula and put the antibiotic in a bag and run it over 45 minutes. Do everything very slowly, I said, and let's see what happens. The pain of having veins blow is severe. So they said, good suggestion (of course. I was the one who suggested it. They are the professionals-why didn't they figure it out?). And it worked. At least something got done right.

The food is just horrible. There are no salads. Since this is a hospital, I went to one of the nurses and asked why there are no salads. She told me that everything is cooked. It is: cooked to death. Then they cook it for another couple of hours just to make sure that nothing is moving or breathing. Or in any way nutritious. Yesterday I spent ten minutes pushing something unrecognizable around the plate, just to see if it pushed back. Happily, nothing was moving on its own, but I still didn't eat it. Thank goodness for baked potatoes (they have those a couple of times a week. What can you do to destroy a baked potato-especially when it's been microwaved?

The broccoli is the same color as my walls: tombstone grey. I'm sure they prepare the stuff for people who have no teeth. And I was given chicken something or other (it was hard to tell) that resembled big yellow turds. So I eat the baked potatoes, and Kettle Chips, and fruit that I buy when I walk up the road to the supermarket. I'm starting to look like a Kettle Chip (at least I will resemble something identifiable), so tomorrow I'm going to buy some salads, and for the rest of my time here (I should be finished on Friday afternoon-if they haven't killed me off first) I will eat decent food-that I will buy myself. Mystery meat that looks like regurgitated dog food is something I don't find appealing!

You know you are middle-aged when the doctors who come into the room look like they aren't even old enough to drive. Or vote. Or shave. They look so young-and they are so dishevelled-they look like vagrants, not doctors. One came into the room this morning-and I wanted so desperately to tell him to come back when his voice has changed and his balls have dropped.

No-I didn't. I decided to be a model of restraint, so I said nothing. After all, you never know who will be wielding the next cannula.

If I can get to the computer tomorrow, it will be part 3 of how to speak idiot. Really, there is so much more-and here I thought these ten days in the hospital would be boring!

Ah for another holiday!

I wanted another holiday-but this one isn't what I planned. I'm on my way into the hospital for two weeks of intravenous antibiotics-and I will do my best to stop them from killing me this time!

The builders finally finished-two days ago, would you believe! And they left a mess that will take weeks to clean-after I get out of the hospital, that is. They painted everything in sight: the microwave, the oven, the hob, the fridge, the floor...you name it, they painted it. And the sad thing is that I wasn't even surprised. After all, this is a country that welcomes the brain-dead, rude, nasty, obnoxious, functionally illiterate...I wonder how some of the people I've met ever made it past puberty. It never ceases to amaze me. Really-come here and if you have an IQ that moves into single figures you will feel better than anyone else. In fact, you will be better than anyone else!

I did hide my laptop under the bed to avoid all the dust and debris-but somehow that didn't happen, either. So I wanted to do a quick post just to let you know I am still alive-but I go back to the Royal London, so how long that will be the case is anybody's guess.

They will start me on antibiotics tonight; tomorrow I am going to sneak out as and when I'm able to find an internet café so I can catch you up on the past two weeks. I will say this: I took the job as social justice driver for the Unitarian Church, and we have joined a pressure group called London Citizens. I went on a five day leadership course-so I haven't been bone idle-and now I remember the three pieces of advice my mother gave me (actually, two were from my mother and one was from my granny, who was always the wise one).
1.  Always wear clean underwear, you never know when you will get run over (I did listen to this one)
2. Never volunteer for anything (big, big oops! At my age I should know better!)
3.And from granny: do your squats every day, religiously. If you do no other exercise, do squats. That way you will never have to sit on a public toilet.

Not much anyone can say to the last one, is there? I must have the strongest leg muscles in North London (maybe the world).

More later. Ciao-I'm off to speak "medical idiot".

The benefits of speaking idiot

These two weeks have been far from joyous. The workmen demolished my kitchen and left me with a pile of rubble. My kitchen is boxed and sitting in the living room, as is my full-sized refrigerator. And the dust and dirt and grime are everywhere. I feel like I'm camping out-and the guys come and go as they wish, which means I am left sitting like a lemon until they decide to grace me with their presence. Anyone who has ever had a new kitchen installed knows exactly what I am feeling: murderous!

I've had my laptop hidden under a pile of clothes, hoping it wouldn't get really dirty. I don't know where all this dirt comes from, or how it gets everywhere-but I covered the microwave (now sitting on the kitchen table, also in the living room) and it is filthy. I guess I know what I will be doing when -if-they ever finish: cleaning. Probably for days, maybe weeks. Ugh. I just try to bear in mind that when it is all done it will be much nicer than the prehistoric kitchen I had before. Hopefully.

I consider myself to be bilingual. My first language is English. My second is idiot. After so many years here, I am quite proficient in idiot. And that didn't help me with most of the workmen, because most of the workmen don't speak a word of English. So there hasn't been a lot of conversation in the past two weeks. There has, however, been a lot of pointing (from me) and a great deal of headshaking (from them). And they look at me when I am trying to communicate-and they grunt. There is a lot of grunting. So today I decided to dig out my laptop, and I'm sitting on the bed with my computer in my lap (good job it's called a laptop, isn't it).

I had one bit of excitement in these two weeks of sitting on my backside and missing any and all really lovely weather. On Friday, the psycho from upstairs walked into my apartment. His kitchen is being replaced, too-and he took it upon himself to try to push past one of the workmen. I saw him in all his garb: dirty white (or, rather, off-white) dress, headgear, the whole deal (I don't know what they call the uniform, so apologies to any Muslims who are offended. Tough). He was trying to get past the workman and I screamed for him get out. I told the workman (Greg) that there is a restraining order against this man, and he practically had to push the psycho out the door. So I called the police.

It has been a trip and a half since Friday. I had to go to the local cop shop and have a two hour interview about all this, and I was told that a police officer would contact me within 24 hours. Good thing I didn't hold my breath-I'm still waiting. Grrrr...between the useless workmen and the even more useless police, all I do is wait. Will they do anything? Probably not. They usually wait for someone to be murdered-and then won't do anything without a witness or CCTV. I suppose it's too much paperwork.

So that is where we are at the moment: drinking coffee and sitting on my behind, waiting for things to be finished. It might be a long wait. See what I mean about speaking idiot.

Next time I will write some jokes. In English, too!

Tits ahoy. The stomach has landed.

I got back last Friday-amazing that a week has gone by already. I wandered around like a lost fart. I was so jet lagged for a week-my stomach and brain were still at 40,000 feet. I felt like my brain had gone through the blender. In fact, I was so dull I was starting to act like a local-not that anybody would notice if my brain stopped working. This is Britain. Nobody else's brain works anyway.

So the flight was okay, nothing exciting. The most exciting thing was the fact that my suitcase was 17 pounds overweight. Imagine-the allowance is 50 pounds (not 50 kilos. Duh), and mine weighed 67 pounds. I had to pay an excess fee of a hundred dollars. I can tell you, that smarted a bit. So I asked the baggage people why someone who weighs twice as much as I do has to pay only the same excess. I pointed out that the total weight (passenger plus suitcase) should count, because that is discrimination against thin people. It was a good try-didn't work, but I tried. And paid. And grumbled. And I was lucky, because my minicab was waiting at Heathrow when I got there, so I didn't have to get the hernia carrying my suitcase!

I don't mind flying, although I would prefer to be able to beam myself wherever I want to go (like they do in Star Trek). So many hours on a plane, inhaling everyone else's used air. Yich. But I can imagine researchers here trying to perfect that kind of beaming thing; they would probably end up sending a body to Manchester, and the head to Australia.

Well, I started going to the doctor stuff on Tuesday. I had to go have bloods taken, and cough and spit in a pot so that I could be checked for pseudomonas. I won't know anything until Monday. And I haven't slept well for over a week. I wonder how many nights I can go before I start to hallucinate...

Yesterday, Conan the Destroyer and his pals came and ripped out my kitchen. They were supposed to put up a plastic curtain so the dust could be contained-but they didn't. You should see my flat now: everything from the kitchen is in the living room, and I can't get from one end to the other without tripping over boxes. I'm told that I need to give them three weeks to do the kitchen properly-so that gives me the excuse to eat out, doesn't it?

There is a shell where the kitchen used to be-and the rest of the apartment looks like it was hit by a bomb. Since I was completely useless last week, I will see how much I can do to make some space before the workmen return on Monday morning. And I still have to unpack my suitcase, which is sitting in my hallway-now that's what I call procrastination!

On the plus side, in three weeks I will either have a new kitchen or the building will have fallen down. And-now I get a chance to see exactly how much stuff I have accumulated (it doesn't get more painful than that!).

I bought some lovely clothes while I was visiting Jessie. So one of the things I had to do was find my prostheses (which I call bra stuffers) and try everything on with boobs intact (ish). Everything still fits, even though I ate like there was a famine while I was in Florida.

I'm already looking forward to going back for another visit-it'll take me a year just to pay for this trip!
Meanwhile, I know I need to stay here for the duration, because at least I can get the treatment I need (until the NHS finishes being privatized).

Good thing I speak idiot, isn't it?

At the wire

I will soon be on my way to the airport, and I will be saying goodbye to my sister for awhile. This really is the wire: I was awake all night (I always am, the night before a flight. No idea why-anxiety, perhaps), so I got up and nebulized at 4am. Nuts? Possibly. But I am all packed-and ready to rupture myself carrying a full backpack and rolling a suitcase that weighs 65kg. That will cost me $100 in excess baggage fees-not a pretty sight!!

I would like to say I am rejuvenated-but that isn't exactly true. I might be rejuvenated after a facelift-or, in my case, a body transplant (a healthy one. Perhaps Angelina Jolie is available?). No, really-just joking (about Jolie)-and by the time someone figures out how to transplant a body without killing someone, I will be long gone. You will probably be long gone, too. So I realize I must do the best I can with what I've got-and, really, what I've got isn't too shabby.

It's been a good three weeks. I've rested, hung out with Jessie and the dogs and cats, walked dogs, helped clean the house and even helped do some cooking. And-I've eaten so much, you would think there was a famine on its way. Nobody can ever accuse me of having an eating disorder. When I lost all that weight last year, all someone had to do was send me here. That's the cure-much more fun than the noxious stuff they gave me to drink. Anyway, I didn't drink it (it all went down the drain. My drains were filled with vitamins). I ate pasta. And more pasta. Yum. I don't even need to eat to gain weight. I look at something fattening and I can just apply it to my hips.

So, the next post you read will come from London. Hopefully, the plane will be landing tomorrow morning, and there will be a taxi waiting-so someone else gets the hernia from lifting the suitcase.

I'm happy that I have pockets in my coat-wherever there is a pocket, I have filled it. I feel like a Sherpa. It will take a week to get over jet lag and two weeks for my back to return to normal! Will I ever learn to travel light? Probably not.

I'm sad to leave-I leave my sister behind, and that depresses me, because I am back in a place I don't especially like, among people I hold in the utmost contempt. But-as Jessie said, I am stuck there, and I need to find something good about the place, and focus on the good, not the not-so-good.

I'm thinking about that. I'm considering it. And I'm taking a pound of pastrami with me on the plane, so I can look forward to some decent food tomorrow (unless I get caught).

What can be bad about that?

You can't help but laugh...

On Friday night's television news, there was an article about thyroid cancer (I heard about this on Saturday morning). The newscaster looked earnestly at the camera (they always look earnestly at the camera) and reported that there is a huge increase in thyroid cancer. The newscaster then reported that this is because doctors are diagnosing it too much.

Indeed! This was the late night news-and I had to laugh when Jessie told me on Saturday. Doctors are diagnosing it too much? If they stop diagnosing it, will it go away?

I just had to laugh-it was that absurd (and appeals to my gallows sense of humor). So I naturally had to share this news with you.

I leave to return to London on Thursday afternoon-a twelve hour journey with the guarantee of at least 5-7 days of jet lag at the end of it. Yuck. My flat-sitting friend will still be there when I get back-happily leaving for home as soon as I have settled in. Then the really hard work begins. Immediately.

I need to pack up everything in the kitchen and put it all in the living room. The builders will be arriving on Wednesday morning at 8am to rip out the kitchen-and I do mean, rip out the kitchen. I will have no cabinets, no sink, no floor-nothing but a shell. And my place is not very big, so I will also have to move everything from one side of the living room to the other. And I have to do all this while suffering the effects of jet lag. Add to that the fact that I have to go to Stanmore on Monday morning to have bloodwork done in preparation for the arthroscopy in April. It's only keyhole surgery to fix the torn cartilage in my left knee-but I still will need to hang out in the day surgery ward for several hours. So pre-admission testing is on Monday. What a joy.

These three weeks have been great. I've had much needed rest, and Jessie and I have done really well, We've mucked in and done housework, cleaning, cooking, and laundry as though I am a roommate, not a guest. At the beginning, we both worried that we would kill each other (figuratively speaking, of course) before the first week ended. We're both so accustomed to living on our own that we weren't sure that three weeks in the same house would work. I'm happy to say that it did; somehow I feel that we achieved something unexpected. Age? Maturity? The honest desire not to kill anyone? Whatever. It was a surprise to me, because I've been divorced for a few years and I'm so much of a loner. And Jessie is, too. We don't need to hide any sharp objects now...

Tomorrow I am going to pack my suitcase (that'll be amusing), and we are going to take it to one of the stores that has a commercial scale. I need to see if it weighs more than fifty pounds. Honestly, I'm sure it does. So I need to call the airline to find out how many pints of blood they will charge me for the excess weight. That could be a very painful and expensive experience!

I'm gearing up to go back. I haven't used my stick every day, and I've been walking a lot. I couldn't have done all the walking the last time I was here-so, pseudomonas or no pseudomonas, I've done really well. I can be proud of myself.

When I get back I will need to lose the weight I gained if I want to fit into the new clothes I bought!

Years ago, I used to come home to New York for antiques fairs (I was in the business at the time). I always took a dozen everything bagels, pastrami, corned beef, several bottles of wine and spirits on the plane back from JFK. I never got stopped. But people around me would be smelling cold cuts all the way across the Atlantic. Naturally, I pretended not to know anything. And when I got to Heathrow, I always went through the green "nothing to declare" section. The customs men invariably sniffed-you could smell pastrami fifty feet before I got to them. I always walked next to someone else, just to be on the safe side. If I'd been caught-well, I would have been in trouble. When the alcohol allowance was three bottles, I brought six. Just in case we had a party.

So on Thursday, I will trust my luck. Who knows? After Thursday I could be blogging from jail...but at least I will have my pastrami.