The first cornerstone of life-rocks

Life is unfair. That's it: never expect anyone or anything in life to play fair. Once you get that, you will never be disappointed.

I walked funny for a few days after I posted last time-and I couldn't raise my arms-but that was self-inflicted, since I knew better than to overdo it at the gym, but I overdid it anyway. It might have been entertaining to any onlookers to see me walking like I had a rod shoved up my behind-but, for me-not so much.

I got through all that, happily-and I am on course to do the Race for Life on Saturday. And-I spoke too soon about the computer being fixed, because Outlook has gone down again. Repeatedly. I've got no idea what the problem is. I switched from Internet Explorer to Google Chrome, and felt very smug because I was able to access my hundreds of emails (mostly junk)...and then, wouldn't you know it, the whole thing went pear-shaped. Again. Grrrr...like I said, life is unfair. So I figured out this morning that I will go on Facebook-if I can remember the password!- and just put it out to whoever is reading to see if any computer wizards know what to do next.

I haven't been bone-idle since the last time I posted. I did go back to the gym last week, but I was more careful - and I feel nearly ready for Saturday. I walk a lot anyway-it's part of physio-so I should be able to do 5k easily (it's only a little over 3 miles). But I also went to see Dimples, and he was really negative about the whole thing. Oh, he had to comment, I'm not strong enough, last year I was such a wreck, cancer, surgery, the knee realignment, etc, etc. What if I have a dizzy spell and fall over? What if someone else knocks me over? All those people rushing past me-I could be injured.

True-but people crash into me and knock me over in the course of walking outside my building, so this would be nothing new. If I fall over, I get up again. If I come in last, who cares? The point for me is that I am doing something I couldn't do last year. Four years ago I couldn't get out of bed without falling over. For the first two years since the gentamicin disaster I couldn't go up and down stairs, or even walk ten steps without someone having to help me. I couldn't see; I couldn't read; I couldn't watch tv or go to a movie. I couldn't go anywhere.

It has taken me four years to reach this point, and I am going for it. I went home in 2012-briefly-and nobody knew just how bad I was then. But I went home anyway. For me, that was an amazing achievement. And now I am walking in unfamiliar, hilly terrain-and probably in 85 degree heat, according to the weather people-and, although it is only 3.3 miles (or thereabouts), this, to me, is nothing short of a miracle. And I am going to finish the course. Who knows? There might be people coming in after me, so I won't be last after all!!

One of the nurses told me that I am an inspiration to so many people. That was nice to hear, but I don't think of myself as an inspiration to anyone. I think of myself as being what the Brits call "bloody minded": determined, and, as we say, ornery. I am as prepared as I can possibly be. I leave the rest up to the day itself. We'll see.

Something Andy said in his sermon last week really resonated with many of us: we become what we do. That fired people up - for about five minutes - but it made people think about sitting around and doing nothing, just being all talk and no action.

In my view, I go a little bit further. We become what we believe. I also believe that miracles happen. So this year I will do the 5K - and next year I will do the 10K. I am determined to be off the stick by this Christmas. I will, of course, keep you posted.

I will let you know what happens on Saturday afternoon. One thing for certain: I will give both Kettle Chips and Jack Daniel's a hammering!!

Winos of the world, unite

As you know, I had a couple of weeks that could try the patience of a saint-and drive anyone to drink. I'm still thinking about it-but glad these three weeks are over.

Everything seems to hinge on waiting: wait over an hour to see a doctor, wait eight hours to have a deceased computer picked up, then a few days later wait another eight hours to have the new one delivered. Wait, wait, wait-this is my life that is flying by at warp speed, and I spend it waiting for other people. Grrrr!!

Something good did happen, though-so I don't spend all my time complaining (really, I don't).

Last week I phoned McAfee and described the problem with my emails. The tech support lady spent an hour with me and uninstalled and reinstalled my virus program. She also scoured my computer and announced that I do not have any spyware or malware-or any unwanted programs, or viruses-but she was at a loss to explain the email problem. Sometimes I could read and send, most times I couldn't. She was going to refer me to another department, but there would be a charge to figure it out. And I had already gone to two computer shops within ten minutes walking distance-they were both talking about spyware, and hard disk problems, and wanted to charge me at least £100-probably more. I could see the light in both people's eyes-the light that said "we've got a sucker. Charge her as much as possible".

So I sat and contemplated. I ruminated. I considered. And then I thought-what if the problem is my browser? What if I switch off Internet Explorer (the McAfee tech had already reinstalled that, too) and make Google Chrome my default browser?

Did I get a lightbulb "aha, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot moment" when I discovered that I now have working emails! And I didn't have to pay the equivalent of $200-I only had to use my head. So-I thought that deserved a good bottle of wine, since I worked it out myself. Only-I don't drink much, so I now have £100 to spend on-something. I will figure that out later. Right now, I'm back online.

I've also been going back to the gym, getting ready for Race for Life next month. I'm walking my legs off-good thing I have the elbow crutch to keep me from toppling over.

Of course, me of little patience, I've been doing too much, since I haven't done anything for over a year.

Did you know that there are approximately 642 skeletal muscles in the human body-up to 800, depending on your source of information. And I think I have strained every single one of them. No kidding, I'm walking like I just lost my virginity (yes, I can remember back that far-it isn't something one forgets very easily).

I feel like a house fell on me.

So what am I doing now? I'm going back to the gym, of course. And here comes another, much bigger house.Am I a glutton for punishment, or what? Then I can come home and hit the Kettle Chips. My mother didn't raise an idiot, you know!

Fight Week

I wanted to call last week an abomination-but that is too strong a term for a week that was just simply horrendous: irritating, frustrating, you name it.

For one thing, Outlook doesn't work. Hotmail doesn't work. Nothing on my computer works-it is simply kaput. And the thing is only three years old, which really gets to me. My old one lasted 12 years. Miracles happen. So now I will have to go to an internet café to do any work-until I can afford a new computer. I should try Apple next time-everyone I've spoken to loves Apple. So-soon.

Last Monday I phoned the transport department at Barts to book transport for a scan I'm having tomorrow. Of course, when I say it was "fight week"-who else would I be fighting but Barts? They have merged and now are called Barts Trust, with six hospitals involved. Different name, but still a pile of crap, and last week proved it. Spectacularly.

The short version is that I called the transport number and was diverted to some voice messaging service that told me I am not registered for transport. I've been taking hospital transport since the gentamicin debacle, and I keep using it because I don't want to be exposed to the diseases that are prevalent in East London-particularly tuberculosis. It has been an epidemic for too many years to mention. I'll get into the whys and wherefores another time. I did promise the short version!

I ended up calling everyone I could think of just to find out what was happening. West One Cars is the car service that has handled my transport for nearly four years-and West One was sub-contracted to a company called Carillion. The Friday before last, Carillion lost the contract with Barts, and West One was no longer sub-contracted by Carillion. What makes this so interesting is that nobody at any of the hospitals knew this. Nobody. West One was informed at 5pm on the Friday, and some bunch of cowboys called ERS transport took over on Saturday-without telling anyone.

Last Monday, dozens of patients were left without any transport: patients who were do to be admitted as inpatients, patients who were due for tests, or clinics, and patients who were supposed to be discharged were all left wondering what had happened. What spectacular idiocy is that!

I rang my contact at West One and was told about the contract takeover, and I then rang the immunology people-who were completely surprised. They actually thanked me for telling them. Amazing-because it is easier to find hen's teeth than to get any kind of gratitude from anyone at the immunology department.

So, my week was spent trying to organize transport for tomorrow. On Wednesday I sat and was on hold (don't you hate being on hold) for a solid hour before I was able to book my car for tomorrow. It took another 30 minutes to do a simple booking-because all the information had to be input manually. Apparently, ERS had no information on any patients. But - I still wasn't satisfied.

In the middle of all this torture, I started going back to the gym-so I was happy about that. Happy-and sore, too. I was supposed to get a delivery of immunoglobulin on Friday, and Bupa screwed that up. too. So you can see that everything went wrong last week-on Friday I was ready to scream.

Yesterday I sent an email to the CEO of Barts-and within an hour someone else rang me to apologize for the cock-up. I was told that it was all resolved, and I would have a car tomorrow. So when he hung up, I called Nick over at West One. Good thing I did-because nothing had been done at all. Apparently someone had put all my details on a piece of paper-and lost the paper. So-Nick sorted it all out. If I hadn't called him, if I hadn't been persistent, I would be twiddling my thumbs tomorrow and miss my appointment altogether.

And that was my week. I could easily take up drinking, that is how frustrating I felt. As for my laptop-I might just give it a good kicking!!

Star Trek

Last week I was so focused on death and dying (and I've come close so many times that I am practically an expert), I forgot to mention that Polling Day was on the Thursday. Polling Day: the day when Europe went to vote on who would take over as European MPs-or, rather, MEPs (Members of European Parliament, I think-like I could care less).

What made it interesting for me wasn't just that the French voted in the right wingers (trust the French to do just that), but Brits did the same thing. That's a little scary. Come the revolution, I will be among the first to be shot...

All the parties had their representatives knocking on doors to make absolutely certain that anyone who was eligible to vote went to the polls. I think if dogs could vote, they would have been sent to the polls, too. So-I was walking back from the supermarket and noticed that someone was talking to my neighbor, Tom. Tom was standing there, can of beer in his hand (at 11am-can't say I blame him. Who wants to be jumped on by a politician's gofer at 11:00 in the morning?). And before I could turn around, the woman pounced. I do mean-pounced.

There she was, right in my face, wearing one of those really naff badges that said she was representing the Conservative Party. That is David Cameron's party-and everyone hates David Cameron. So I just looked at her as she said she was Emma, and just wanted to know that everyone was going to vote.

It wasn't just that she was right in my face-but she had a clipboard in her hand, and on the clipboard was a list of everyone in the area-including me. I found that an affront. I'm very private-and she really wasn't entitled to know who lived where. So she asked me if I live there, and I said I was just visiting (in my very best American drawl). Tom started to snicker in his beer, and she asked which apartment I was visiting. It was none of her business, but I'm polite, and I decided to have a little fun.

So I told her, and she asked whether the residents were voting. I said they were at the polling station even as I was speaking to her. Then she asked if I had voted. Oh, the silly woman!!

 No, I said, I don't vote. I'm an alien. That was it-Tom was snorting into his beer. Then she asked for my name. I could barely keep a straight face, and Tom was sipping his beer and waiting for me to say-

Spock, I said, glancing at Tom (who is an avid-some would say obsessive-Star Trek fan), and he tried to choke back his laughter, and looked away. Spock? she asked. How do you spell that? S-p-o-c-k, I replied. Oh, she said, that is unusual. Where is that from?

It's Brazilian, I said. By now Tom was snorting-and I was trying very hard to keep a straight face. But, I added, my father is Armenian. And that did it: Tom was in hysterics-because this Emma didn't get it at all. She looked at him, and I said, don't take any notice. He's got-a "condition", in a loud whisper (which made him laugh harder). And, I added conspiratorially, he's on-tablets.

Well-she said, oh, poor man, and he sprinted for his door, laughing so hard he sounded like a cross between gargling and two animals rutting.

And Emma's colleague was coming toward us-so I figured, a speedy exit was needed. I wished her luck in the elections, and it occurred to me that she had a very familiar accent. Emma, where in Essex are you from? I asked. I knew. I just knew.

Braintree, she replied, how did you know I'm from Essex? (oh, Hell, how obvious can it be? SPOCK??? Really!). So I replied that I have friends who grew up in Chelmsford, so I know the accent (I was priding myself on being so full of crap-people will believe anything if you say it sincerely. And if they're from Essex).

We both said goodbye -and I said have a nice day, because I'm just such a prat sometimes. And I was glad the front door to the building locks, because Emma said goodbye, Mrs. Spock-I wish you could have seen her colleague's face. What a Kodak moment that was!!

That was the best day I've had in awhile. And now, when I see Tom outside, he looks at me and laughs. I so remember that day. Tom laughed so hard, I'm surprised he didn't rupture something.

RIP: a little perspective-and a lot of Jack Daniel's

I said that mortality bites-and it does, at the strangest times. I've been feeling very vulnerable lately, and have been thinking about death and dying for a few weeks. The first "anniversary" of my cancer surgery was yesterday. One year on, I keep thinking I haven't accomplished anything. And-I'm still alive, so that is quite an accomplishment.

My friend Dani texted me on Wednesday morning-very early. She wrote that Arthur died late Tuesday night. So I called her at about 8am, figuring she would be awake. She was destroyed, really destroyed. They had been together for more than 25 years, and he was her entire life. She said that without him she is nothing. She didn't want to talk-couldn't-and asked me to leave communication until she felt well enough to ring me. She was grateful when I asked if she wants me to attend his funeral. And that was it-I couldn't keep calling when she asked me to leave her for awhile.

So I thought about death even more this week-my college roommate didn't call me the High Priestess of Angst and Rumination for nothing! Really-that nickname stuck for years. I really need to do something about changing that. Going through life wringing your hands isn't a good prescription for a happy life!

I was thinking about the terms we use for someone dying. I told someone yesterday that my friend's husband died-and she looked at me like I had just kicked her dog. We aren't supposed to say that, she said. She said that we should say they "passed".

Now really-passed? Passed where? Passed out? Passed her in the street? Passed go and didn't collect two hundred dollars (Google Monopoly if you don't get that!)? Then there is "passed over". Over what? A bridge? A pet? An obstacle of some sort? That's silly, at least to me. And-so and so "left". Where did they go? Did they leave town? The country? Did they go to Paris? New York? Cleveland?

People always say someone passed away (where is "away", exactly?), or some thing having to do with passing, and always in hushed tones, as if the earth will open up and swallow them if they seem disrespectful in any way. And my personal favorite is: "they shuffled off their mortal coil". Oh, please-what a load of Shakespearian pretentious crap is that? Give me a break, please!!

What is wrong with saying that someone died? They didn't pass away/pass/pass over/leave/snuff it/pop their clogs (unless they're Danish)/kick the bucket (is there a point to that? I ask myself). They died. Sorry. Boo hoo. One minute they were alive, the next minute they weren't. Very sad, but they're dead. Dani was weeping terribly, and I nearly started; I'm not heartless, just practical. All these euphemisms are really annoying. When I die, someone can say-she died. Oh, well...

Dani did text me yesterday to say that the autopsy showed that Arthur's heart just stopped. He had no clue, didn't suffer at all, went just the way she prayed he would. So I texted back and said that is good news (that he didn't suffer), and remember that I am here if she needs me.

Now, that is the way I want to go-but not for a very, very long time!! I'm not afraid of dying-it's pain and suffering beforehand that scares me. And what scares me even more is that I don't feel like I have really been living. My life for the past four years (and then some) has been more about survival (and surviving doctors!) than about thriving, and living, and enjoying myself.

I think that I would like some prior notice-say, a week-before I just keel over. That would be so great, if we all got to choose-make an appointment. Sorry, but a week next Thursday you are going to die, so do your laundry, tidy up, see your friends, etc. And finish the Jack Daniel's. Knock yourself out.

Every morning I wake at 5am-I've done that for years, always an early riser. And I move my head from side to side, roll my eyes, shake my arms, move my legs, move everything. I want to make sure I haven't had a stroke during the night. Hell, at my age, you can't be too careful.

Some things are highly overrated

Boobs. And boobs to you, too. Really-I've been freaking out for the last two weeks-because Friday will mark exactly one year since I had cancer surgery. It isn't exactly a wonderful anniversary, either. So I freaked out early; I start early, and I'm just being prepared. For what, I don't know-I'm just prepared.

I went to all the hospital stuff last week-and Mr. Tan, the oncologist, decided to take his vacation on the very day we were supposed to have a consultation. One of his colleagues examined me and pronounced me a) still alive, and b) no lumps, bumps or other suspicious growths in the lymph nodes. So I am okay for another six months, when I am due to be examined by Mr. Tan (if he doesn't go on vacation again). I was so relieved I practically skipped out of the clinic (wouldn't that be a sight to behold!).

I will still be referred to a specialist breast surgeon who will perform the reconstruction-if I choose to go that route. But honestly, it has been a year. And I would be just as happy to write off 2013-and the start of 2014, while I'm at it. I'm not going for reconstruction. It will be a long, drawn-out process, and there will be a lot of pain, according to people in my cancer survivors' group who have had it done. Ewww...I've had enough pain. So I will stay flat as a board. Really-I would rather have no boobs and no cancer than have boobs and cancer. Obviously. Like I wrote before, some things are highly overrated.

It has been a rough week. I've thought of last year at this time, and I feel like I've accomplished so little in the last twelve months. Then I work on putting a positive spin on everything - and I remember that I am still alive. I'm really lucky, when I remember CVID, and gentamicin, and - of course - cancer. Nobody can forget cancer. I still have to concentrate on the fact that I have survived, rather than the fact that cancer can return.

I went to see my friend Dani, the acupuncturist, last week. I haven't seen her in awhile-and she lives in Essex, so I try to avoid going when I can. Every time I cross the Essex border I can feel my IQ dropping 100 points-and I'm still ten times more intelligent that the Essex population (and that is cumulative, not individual!). Dani isn't British-so I can cheerfully slag off the Essex population- as long as she never comes across this blog!

It usually takes three hours each way to go visit Dani-and this time it took four hours to get back to North London. I approached my building, and what did I see? A large mouse (or a small rat) on top of one of the garbage bins, sitting and eating something that was noxious and unidentifiable. The mouse looked at me. I looked at him (or her). We looked at each other. So I punched him.

Yep-before you get all upset, thinking I beat the crap out of a mouse, I can confirm that he saw the fist coming his way and jumped off the bin-still eating. Unfortunately, my neighbor's back door was open-and where did the little rodent go? Straight into Hazel's flat. So I waited.

Hazel is very large-about the size of an airship- and she doesn't move very quickly. So I stood there, waiting for a scream, or a crash (in case she fainted). Nothing. I waited for ten minutes, but decided that I should go inside before someone called the police and said there is a woman lurking outside the building, leaning on an elbow crutch. And, oh yeah-she punched a mouse. Probably a felony in this country. You can commit murder, rape, assault-and get your wrist slapped-but hit a mouse? Oooohhh!

I did see Hazel yesterday, very much alive and well-and still eating. Every time I see her she is eating. I think she keeps the bakeries in business. But I was so upset the other day that I went in the house and hit the Kettle Chips. Punch a mouse (well, a near miss, anyway), stuff one's face with Kettle Chips. Seems like a fair deal to me!

If there is ever a shortage of Kettle Chips-I'm in trouble. There is always-Reese's Peanut Butter Cups!

I'm doing two cancer walks for charity: one is for the charity at the Royal Free Hospital, and the other is called Race for Life. I'll be walking both of them (obviously)-me and my trusty walking stick. I figure, the more I walk, the more Kettle Chips I can eat....

Mortality Bites

Nope-still not dead. Yet.

I've had a really bad couple of weeks. My arm suddenly became very swollen-and painful-and I couldn't even pick up a kettle, let alone write. I think it might have been a reaction to the 8 cannulas-most of them were in the same arm. Whatever. Did I go to the doctor? Or the hospital? Of course not. I'm developing a phobia of anyone who is medical. So I just waited, rubbed in Arnica, hoped it would all settle down. It's taken more than two weeks-but it seems to be much better. So far.

I was very, very depressed. Since the 20th or thereabouts, I started crying for no good reason. In fact, last weekend I kept bursting into tears - in the street, in the supermarket, just about everywhere-including church. How embarrassing-I'm a grown-up, after all!

Then I had one of those light bulb moments- you know, the one where you want to smack yourself in the head and kick yourself in the shins because it took so long to figure it out. And I had the "aha", but I didn't hit (or kick) myself. It was because I was thinking back to last year.

Last year-last April-I had the biopsy that changed my life-or should have done, anyway. I had to wait until May 1st to get the verdict-even as I was sitting in the waiting area outside Mr. Tan's office, I kept hoping he would say it was nothing. But-somehow I knew, and when he told me I had breast cancer I burst into tears (yeah, I do cry a lot. I even cry when I watch a sad movie. Duh. Cry-baby).

So that was what it was all about! I didn't even do my usual Brit-bashing. And I love Brit-bashing, as you know. I had two decades of Yankee-bashing from these inbreds, I figure it's time to give some of it back. Plus-it's fun. I know I'm taking pot shots at the brain-dead,obnoxious, rude, and all the things I said in my last post-but it is all so true. I remember after the mastectomy, lying in the room, feeling absolutely awful-and a nurse came in and said "I know exactly how you feel".

I said "you had breast cancer?". I think I was hoping for an ally. Instead, she replied "oh, no, but I had knee surgery. Torn cartilage". She pulled up her trouser leg and showed me a scar from keyhole surgery. And she compared that with breast cancer and a double mastectomy. I couldn't believe it. I asked her if she thought both conditions were the same. She said - well, it was surgery. And I just had to turn away in disbelief. And there you have it: proof positive of the resident brain-dead inbreds. She wasn't the first, and she won't be the last-but brain-dead? Absolutely.

Well, I must say I had to smile at that - so everything I say about the Brits is absolutely accurate, true and objective. You just have to laugh and really wonder how these guys ever made it past puberty. No wonder they're nearly a third world country. And no wonder they needed us to win the war. Eeek.

I'm feeling better now-finally. I'm not sure I did a very good job of grieving-grieving for my balance that was destroyed four years ago, grieving for my breasts - but I'm working on it. Anyway, breasts are highly overrated-unless I happen to be on a plane that decides to go down over the Atlantic. Then I want a seat mate who is at least the size of Katie Price. So I would probably not need the life jacket they give you, complete with whistle and flashlight.

You are in the middle of the Atlantic. Who is going to see a light from a flashlight? And who on earth is going to hear a bloody tiny whistle? Are they nuts? Just seat me next to the black box-those nearly always make it.

Some people get very down and they turn to alcohol, or drugs, or guns, or whatever. I turn to Kettle Chips-much better, in my view (but fattening as hell). I wonder if they count as one of your five-a-day. Sure, of course they do-just have a tomato at the same time. Then you can call it two of your five-a-day.

Speaking of Kettle Chips, mine are calling "eat me, eat me already". So you know I must be feeling better.