I haven't been idle since Matthew did his little stunt on Monday. I filed two complaints with two different departments at Barts and the London. I also filed a separate complaint with the General Medical Council. And I'm not finished yet.
For the four years Matt has been my immunologist (not necessarily a willing one, but I fired Hilary so he didn't exactly have a choice), he has threatened and bullied me, and told me that if I say anything against his colleagues (the cripplers), he would throw me out of the immunology department into the community, and I would be left to fend for myself. He did that on Monday-deliberately, maliciously, viciously, very unprofessionally, and with intent to hurt me. And he failed-spectacularly.
Matt Buckland (I don't need to put his name in caps, because everyone now knows who he is-or, should I say, what he is) actually set me free. I wanted to leave the immunology department at the Royal London for the last five years. But for the first three of those years I was so badly physically damaged by the gentamicin poisoning that I could barely stand up, let alone start looking for an ethical doctor-one who wouldn't either cripple me or kill me. So I stayed, knowing that as soon as I was able I would start looking for someone I could trust. Matt beat me to the punch: he took the choke-hold off my throat, took off the handcuffs, and took the duct tape off my mouth. He'd threatened me for years, but now I could tell the truth. And tell the truth is exactly what I did. Too bad if he and the other three cripplers don't like it; it's time that everyone everywhere know what these creatures really are: monsters who do and say exactly what they want with impunity, without being held accountable to anyone. And I want that to stop.
I couldn't speak out publicly-but I could start a blog, which I did as soon as I could actually sit in front of a computer and type with two fingers, trying hard to get those two fingers to do what my brain was telling them to do. That was - very tough to do, but I had to do it.
I spoke with someone from one of those hospital departments, and told that person that Matt Buckland was threatening, bullying, intimidating, had (and has) severe mood swings, has temper tantrums, and outbursts of vicious anger-and in front of patients, too. I said that he takes out his inadequacies and frustrations on his patients, is like a petulant child, and should leave all that stuff at home. When a consultant comes in to see a patient, he (or she) should be professional, and listen to the patient, and try to provide help and support. A bad day? Want to let off steam, shout and threaten? Do it elsewhere, not in the clinic. Buckland is unbalanced and vicious, and should not be allowed anywhere near a patient. I said all this to the person in charge, and now the formal complaint is really formal. Even if no action is taken by the hospital, these complaints will go on Buckland's record. The man is dangerously unstable. He's really just dangerous.
I also uploaded my first ever video to YouTube last night. It took me hours to practice saying what I wanted, and I don't think the video is great, but it tells the story. And my goodness, those smartphone cameras might be good for shooting all kinds of things, but I was sitting in front of it and I look like I am a hundred years old. Yikes! I don't need breast reconstruction, I need a facelift! LOL. I did ask Steve the last time I saw him if, since he's more or less in the area, he could do a bit of liposuction on the hips and a nip and tuck on the face. He just burst out laughing.But he has a sense of humor-and for me, I would like a consultant with a sense of humor, not someone who has a tantrum at nothing.
So if you go to YouTube and key in "crippled by hospital incompetence" you will see me. I'm the one with the cap (cancer medication causes hair loss. So a cap it is, until I'm off the medication and my hair grows back. My nod to a little vanity).
Do I hate the cripplers? No I don't. I call them the cripplers because that is exactly what they are-and they know, as I know, that if they had taken the plugs out of their ears and listened to me, and had stopped the gentamicin when I told them to, all this could have been avoided. So they will forever be called the cripplers. I've called them a lot worse in the past five years.
In the beginning, when I couldn't get out of bed, or wash myself, or dress myself, or turn my head without feeling sick-or read a book, or use the computer, or do-well, anything by myself-I felt hatred and betrayal, and bitterness, and fear (fear that I would never get better). But I was able to channel those feelings into doing the vestibular exercises, into doing every movement that made me really dizzy, into walking and falling down, getting up and walking some more. I hated them, but every time I felt the frustration of not improving quickly enough, the hatred pushed me forward. When I wanted to give up, I remembered that Longhurst, Bright and Grigoriadou didn't give a damn. They were obvious about that, too. They left me there to rot. I wonder how many other people have been crippled by these doctors' incompetence-and how many have died because of them. I wonder how many will be damaged or killed before these monsters retire. The mind boggles. And when I was ready to quit, I just told myself that I'm damned if I am going to let these monsters win. No way will I let them win. So I kept getting up, and falling over, and getting up again. I was that determined.
Two years ago, I discovered that I had breast cancer, and that I would need a double mastectomy. This, on top of everything else-very disheartening. But I decided that, since I could die, I wasn't going to die with hatred for anyone in my heart. We all know how destructive and debilitating hatred, bitterness, anger, feelings of betrayal-all really toxic emotions, toxic to the body and the spirit. So I told myself that if I survived cancer I was going to have to dig very deep, work very hard, but let go of all those feelings. I knew that Buckland and his little mates didn't give a rat's patootie, and continuing to grieve for my loss and wish that things had been different wouldn't help either my chances of survival or my ability to love and enjoy life. And up to that time I hadn't enjoyed anything. I was too immersed in trying to survive, and trying not to fall down and give myself a skull fracture.
Writing this blog, doing a journal, these helped tremendously. I also reached the point where I could start to read a book without my eyes going all over (a symptom of vestibular destruction is nystagmus, where the eyes jump around and won't stay in one place), and I began to research neuroplasticity, and I came to the conclusion that, since the brain will create new neural pathways when old ones are destroyed, there would be a chance that I would recover, even if that recovery was partial rather than total. So I worked harder.
I struggled with having to go into the Grahame Hayton Unit at the Royal London for my immunoglobulin infusions. I struggled with having to interact with Matt Buckland, knowing that he couldn't care less about my feelings about this whole thing. I asked him once whether he cared how I felt, and he said that he couldn't care less (his exact words), and the only thing he wanted was to know any symptoms dealing with immunology.Chest infections, presence of pseudomonas or any other bugs, that he wanted to hear, but nothing more.
I have other consultants-and you know their names, because I have talked about them before. They are the consultants who have honestly, integrity, who want to help their patients. They treat me like I am an adult, and they treat me with dignity and respect, unlike the cripplers, who treat their patients like they are something someone stepped in. Everyone else gives me the hope that there are other competent, skilled, kind, compassionate, decent human beings, who have become consultants because they want to help people. The cripplers clearly want to help themselves. My other consultants are professional, and act professional (not having tantrums like a two year old, and not behaving spitefully and viciously with a view to placing their patients lives at risk). Sean, Lieske, Aziz, Tan, Skinner, Davies, Steve- I go and see them and I can relax, because I know they have my best interests at heart. Longhurst, Bright, Grigoriadou, Buckland-they don't have anyone's interests at heart except their own.
We all need to decide what we want in a consultant, and we all need to start opening our mouths if people like the cripplers treat us with contempt, disrespect, derision, condescension. People here don't speak up, and when they don't speak up-and out-they are abused by the monsters. They act dismissively? Tell them you will report them. The General Medical Council won't do anything, because doctors are investigating doctors, and we all know how successful that is(n't). But if enough patients complain, then these people are forced to start looking at the bad doctors-and that is the only way to get rid of them: complain to the GMC, to your MP, to your councillor, to your GP, to the media, to anyone who will listen and spread the word. Fight back!!!
I am relentless in my desire for justice-not only for myself, but for anyone who is or has been the victim of dishonest doctors. I look at my consultants (and I'm sure they won't mind that I've named them, since I trust them and hold them in the highest regard), and the difference between them and the cripplers is the difference between-hmmm, let me work this out-okay, between roses and dog poo. I'll take the roses every time. Wouldn't you?
I want to ensure that the cripplers know that I will not back down, and that they have finally been named and shamed. I want them to know that everyone at Barts-in fact, everyone everywhere-knows what they have done, and how shameful they should feel (even though they don't). I want the four cripplers to know that they are being watched-that everything they do and say is being scrutinized, that people are just waiting for them to make a big enough mistake so they can be called up on ethics charges-and threatened to be dismissed (if not struck off in due course). I want them to know how disgusted all the decent doctors, nurses, patients, administrators-and members of the public-people are with them, especially with Buckland's dangerous and spiteful actions on Monday.
Really, I want the four to be so uncomfortable that they either change their behavior or get out. I know the perfect job for all of them, one that fits their personalities, their ability to deal with people, and their intellect.They wouldn't have to talk to anyone (no change there). They would only need to be able to utter the five magic words:
"you want fries with that?"
Thursday, 16 July 2015
Tuesday, 14 July 2015
My sword is drawn and I'm ready for an almighty battle
I was going to talk about events last week-but yesterday finished that idea.
As you know, I have been awaiting reconstructive surgery since last year-and I am due to finally have it in a month's time. But yesterday, the infantile, immature, unethical Matthew Buckland tried his best to put a stop to that. So now it is fight time. And I will put his name in caps: MATTHEW BUCKLAND. I will explain why...
When I had the gentamicin poisoning five years ago, there was no apology from the three cripplers. There was no taking responsibility for their negligence, their sheer incompetence, their arrogance and egomania. Nothing. So I replaced my then immunologist HILARY LONGHURST with MATTHEW BUCKLAND, who banned me from ever mentioning the elephant in the room (GENTAMICIN POISONING), and also banned me from slagging off the three people who crippled me (HILARY LONGHURST, SOFIA GRIGORIADOU, AND PHILIP BRIGHT). I had no choice but to comply with his demands-he would have tossed me into the community and I would have had to find another immunologist and find a way to get my immunoglobulin replacement on my own. I say "on my own", because my GP has no experience in this area (which is fair enough).
Well...I had my infusions yesterday, as usual, and Matt called me into his office. He was sneeringly condescending and extremely unpleasant as he told me that someone had been doing some research and had found my blog (goody for that). He carried on about how I don't trust him-well, why should I? He bullied me for years, and threatened me, and I was too unwell (from the gentamicin) to be able to find another immunologist and another hospital. So I stayed. And I just kept hoping that next time I had to be admitted they wouldn't kill me. I always felt uneasy-I didn't want to leave the hospital in a wheelchair - or in a body bag - that was how much I trusted them to get it right (obviously I didn't trust them at all). In fact, I have been searching for another immunologist for about a year-but I wanted to wait until I had reconstruction before making the move.
I said that Matt was sneeringly condescending, threatening, very cold and unfeeling-apparently his researcher showed him some parts of the blog, and he decided to toss me into the community anyway-four weeks before my operation. He timed it deliberately and maliciously. And he sat there, clearly enjoying what he was doing. I asked him to wait until the operation was over; he said no, he wasn't willing to do that. What an absolute arrogant bastard he is!!
So I have put his name - and the names of the other cripplers - in caps so that anyone who googles them can easily find them-and they know exactly what was done, both viciously and maliciously. Buckland also accused me of slagging off members of the nursing staff (a lie) and his wife (another lie). So MATTHEW BUCKLAND is unethical, insecure, infantile (prone to temper tantrums, poor baby), immoral, has not a shred of integrity or ethics-or compassion, or empathy-and is also an inveterate liar to boot.
I went along to see my GP yesterday afternoon. Obviously I was in a bad state, afraid that the surgery would have to be cancelled. I'm being referred to another hospital, so at least I will have a better immunologist (I couldn't get a worse one, could I?). I'm also filling out a complaint against Buckland with the General Medical Council, charging him with reckless endangerment. Nothing will probably come of it, since the GMC is comprised of doctors, and they all stick together (like rats). I'm complaining to the hospital, too (ditto-Barts will back its doctors, even when they are bullying, incompetent, negligent and threatening. So Buckland is right at home, as are the other two).
My GP said that I should remove all reference to named people from this blog. I say: hell, no!! I was threatened and bullied for years, and not in a pleasant way-why shouldn't I express my opinion? Why should anyone who has been crippled by incompetent, uncaring, arrogant doctors be refused the right to show how they feel?
My hands are no longer tied, since I am no longer a patient at the Royal London's immunology department. And, really, that is a good thing, because it means that I can finally tell the truth without being threatened by some total asshole whose only claim to fame is a medical degree. These people get away with crippling patients, and probably killing some of them, and they are not held accountable for their actions. And that has to change. Only people who speak out will force that change.
One problem with the cripplers (as identified in caps, above) is that they are so focused on the money they get (at least £150,000 a year-not bad for someone without a soul), they ignore the fact that they are treating people. We are people, not simply bodies who have a list of symptoms that need to be treated. These guys have no heart and no soul, or they wouldn't act the way they do, and they would see that we patients have feelings and concerns-but they are all so cold that they just don't really give a damn. And that should change, too. My other doctors (same hospital, different departments) are very different: they care about their patients, they treat us with respect, not the immunologists' contempt.
So what am I doing? Well, I am writing formal complaints to the appropriate agencies, and my friend Dave has a great idea: do a short video, tell exactly what has happened, and upload it to YouTube. Fantastic. I will be doing that tomorrow, and I will be sharing the link with my friends and all of you. The cripplers can't do anything to me-they've already done it all, haven't they?
I want this blog to be seen by everyone, everywhere-and the same with the upcoming video. It's time that people take their power back from the hospitals and the doctors (particularly the incompetent, bullying ones). It is, in my view, way past time. Doctors may be arrogant, unfeeling, have God complexes and think they are above any kind of accountability-but they aren't. And the ones who are like that make it tough for the really good doctors, the really decent human beings, to help the sick. It is supposed to be about alleviating suffering, helping the sick-not about treating us patients like bugs under a microscope.
Until tomorrow, then.
As you know, I have been awaiting reconstructive surgery since last year-and I am due to finally have it in a month's time. But yesterday, the infantile, immature, unethical Matthew Buckland tried his best to put a stop to that. So now it is fight time. And I will put his name in caps: MATTHEW BUCKLAND. I will explain why...
When I had the gentamicin poisoning five years ago, there was no apology from the three cripplers. There was no taking responsibility for their negligence, their sheer incompetence, their arrogance and egomania. Nothing. So I replaced my then immunologist HILARY LONGHURST with MATTHEW BUCKLAND, who banned me from ever mentioning the elephant in the room (GENTAMICIN POISONING), and also banned me from slagging off the three people who crippled me (HILARY LONGHURST, SOFIA GRIGORIADOU, AND PHILIP BRIGHT). I had no choice but to comply with his demands-he would have tossed me into the community and I would have had to find another immunologist and find a way to get my immunoglobulin replacement on my own. I say "on my own", because my GP has no experience in this area (which is fair enough).
Well...I had my infusions yesterday, as usual, and Matt called me into his office. He was sneeringly condescending and extremely unpleasant as he told me that someone had been doing some research and had found my blog (goody for that). He carried on about how I don't trust him-well, why should I? He bullied me for years, and threatened me, and I was too unwell (from the gentamicin) to be able to find another immunologist and another hospital. So I stayed. And I just kept hoping that next time I had to be admitted they wouldn't kill me. I always felt uneasy-I didn't want to leave the hospital in a wheelchair - or in a body bag - that was how much I trusted them to get it right (obviously I didn't trust them at all). In fact, I have been searching for another immunologist for about a year-but I wanted to wait until I had reconstruction before making the move.
I said that Matt was sneeringly condescending, threatening, very cold and unfeeling-apparently his researcher showed him some parts of the blog, and he decided to toss me into the community anyway-four weeks before my operation. He timed it deliberately and maliciously. And he sat there, clearly enjoying what he was doing. I asked him to wait until the operation was over; he said no, he wasn't willing to do that. What an absolute arrogant bastard he is!!
So I have put his name - and the names of the other cripplers - in caps so that anyone who googles them can easily find them-and they know exactly what was done, both viciously and maliciously. Buckland also accused me of slagging off members of the nursing staff (a lie) and his wife (another lie). So MATTHEW BUCKLAND is unethical, insecure, infantile (prone to temper tantrums, poor baby), immoral, has not a shred of integrity or ethics-or compassion, or empathy-and is also an inveterate liar to boot.
I went along to see my GP yesterday afternoon. Obviously I was in a bad state, afraid that the surgery would have to be cancelled. I'm being referred to another hospital, so at least I will have a better immunologist (I couldn't get a worse one, could I?). I'm also filling out a complaint against Buckland with the General Medical Council, charging him with reckless endangerment. Nothing will probably come of it, since the GMC is comprised of doctors, and they all stick together (like rats). I'm complaining to the hospital, too (ditto-Barts will back its doctors, even when they are bullying, incompetent, negligent and threatening. So Buckland is right at home, as are the other two).
My GP said that I should remove all reference to named people from this blog. I say: hell, no!! I was threatened and bullied for years, and not in a pleasant way-why shouldn't I express my opinion? Why should anyone who has been crippled by incompetent, uncaring, arrogant doctors be refused the right to show how they feel?
My hands are no longer tied, since I am no longer a patient at the Royal London's immunology department. And, really, that is a good thing, because it means that I can finally tell the truth without being threatened by some total asshole whose only claim to fame is a medical degree. These people get away with crippling patients, and probably killing some of them, and they are not held accountable for their actions. And that has to change. Only people who speak out will force that change.
One problem with the cripplers (as identified in caps, above) is that they are so focused on the money they get (at least £150,000 a year-not bad for someone without a soul), they ignore the fact that they are treating people. We are people, not simply bodies who have a list of symptoms that need to be treated. These guys have no heart and no soul, or they wouldn't act the way they do, and they would see that we patients have feelings and concerns-but they are all so cold that they just don't really give a damn. And that should change, too. My other doctors (same hospital, different departments) are very different: they care about their patients, they treat us with respect, not the immunologists' contempt.
So what am I doing? Well, I am writing formal complaints to the appropriate agencies, and my friend Dave has a great idea: do a short video, tell exactly what has happened, and upload it to YouTube. Fantastic. I will be doing that tomorrow, and I will be sharing the link with my friends and all of you. The cripplers can't do anything to me-they've already done it all, haven't they?
I want this blog to be seen by everyone, everywhere-and the same with the upcoming video. It's time that people take their power back from the hospitals and the doctors (particularly the incompetent, bullying ones). It is, in my view, way past time. Doctors may be arrogant, unfeeling, have God complexes and think they are above any kind of accountability-but they aren't. And the ones who are like that make it tough for the really good doctors, the really decent human beings, to help the sick. It is supposed to be about alleviating suffering, helping the sick-not about treating us patients like bugs under a microscope.
Until tomorrow, then.
Sunday, 5 July 2015
A very Clouseau moment
I would never be a good cat burglar-or any kind of burglar, for that matter. I waited until it was nearly dark, figuring that I could get around the corner without using my crutch-so nobody would know who I was. It was like Clouseau meets Gerald Ford. If you remember the former President, he could walk into a room that was completely clear of all obstructions and still trip over his own feet. Klutz is the word.
I was just like that last night. I stumbled all over the place, with my box of fireworks, a small flashlight (just in case), a box of matches, a rolled up piece of paper to use as a fuse lighter (didn't need it after all that), and my phone-just in case I managed to set myself (or anyone else) on fire. I kept laughing, so that didn't help.
It went really well. I put the box in the ground, lit the fuse, and sprinted (well, stumbled) across the road to watch the fun. And it was fun-for about two minutes. There were flashes of light, and a couple of rockets rose about eight feet and exploded. Then there was smoke, and dogs barking. In fact, if someone had called the cops they would have missed the fun. I went home, well chuffed that I had done this at all. No wine, or anything alcoholic, though. I guess I just wasn't in the mood.
It was a bit like-hmmm-okay, the first time you have sex with someone new, it's all about anticipation, and the hope that it will all go well and nobody will fall out of bed or have a heart attack (I never said I wasn't a bit weird). Then you know that it is not only the first time-but it's also the last time, because it seems to be over in a heartbeat. You're lying there, thinking - meh. Is that it? Is that all? Eww. What a letdown.
It wasn't exactly the same feeling, of course-not that I can remember that far back-but it was a case of: well, that was nice, but brief. And why on earth did I bother? And the guy turned out to be a total dork...you get the picture.
So that was my July 4th celebration. Next year I will make sure I get some decent fireworks! The dogs were barking, but I'll bet that they were bored, too. But-at least I did something I couldn't do last July, and I realized as I stumbled all over the place that I will have to work harder if I want to be able to go out in the dark (or semi-dark) without my crutch to keep me upright. That in itself was a learning experience.
And now I am going to make myself a Mojito. I think I earned it...
I was just like that last night. I stumbled all over the place, with my box of fireworks, a small flashlight (just in case), a box of matches, a rolled up piece of paper to use as a fuse lighter (didn't need it after all that), and my phone-just in case I managed to set myself (or anyone else) on fire. I kept laughing, so that didn't help.
It went really well. I put the box in the ground, lit the fuse, and sprinted (well, stumbled) across the road to watch the fun. And it was fun-for about two minutes. There were flashes of light, and a couple of rockets rose about eight feet and exploded. Then there was smoke, and dogs barking. In fact, if someone had called the cops they would have missed the fun. I went home, well chuffed that I had done this at all. No wine, or anything alcoholic, though. I guess I just wasn't in the mood.
It was a bit like-hmmm-okay, the first time you have sex with someone new, it's all about anticipation, and the hope that it will all go well and nobody will fall out of bed or have a heart attack (I never said I wasn't a bit weird). Then you know that it is not only the first time-but it's also the last time, because it seems to be over in a heartbeat. You're lying there, thinking - meh. Is that it? Is that all? Eww. What a letdown.
It wasn't exactly the same feeling, of course-not that I can remember that far back-but it was a case of: well, that was nice, but brief. And why on earth did I bother? And the guy turned out to be a total dork...you get the picture.
So that was my July 4th celebration. Next year I will make sure I get some decent fireworks! The dogs were barking, but I'll bet that they were bored, too. But-at least I did something I couldn't do last July, and I realized as I stumbled all over the place that I will have to work harder if I want to be able to go out in the dark (or semi-dark) without my crutch to keep me upright. That in itself was a learning experience.
And now I am going to make myself a Mojito. I think I earned it...
Saturday, 4 July 2015
July 4th - it's a good day to get arrested
It's only around 82 degrees out there - I wonder if jail cells would be air conditioned...probably not. Sadly. But I am ready, just in case my luck finally runs out.
Happy Independence Day - nobody in the media will say anything about it - obviously - so I am doing my bit for democracy and my country (MY country, not this poxy racist dump), and I have an 81-shot box of fireworks ready for send off. If it all goes to plan, it will be - loud...Yeah.
I know it is illegal to shoot off fireworks at any time other than November 5th. However, this is my holiday, so I really don't give a crap what the authorities think. I did a reconnaissance mission to find a safe (ish) area not too far away. And I found a small area without trees, enough space, not owned by anyone...so hopefully I will not cause any injuries to myself, or any animals, or trees, or anything. People? Who cares, anyway? If they don't like it, they can cross the road. And duck.
I get really grumpy in extreme heat-as you can tell. Grumpy, sleepy, sneezy...I'm like the seven dwarfs. All of them. And it has been very, very hot. Like I said yesterday, there is no a/c. How absolutely uncivilized is that!
So far I have held a firework display every year for-a long time. This will be my first time doing it alone, without lookouts. It cuts the fun a little, but hey, if I do get caught, I will just feign ignorance. Or, better still, racial profiling. Why not? Everyone else does. There are enough rapists, pedophiles, murderers, thieves and other kinds of felons running around free to overpopulate all of Manhattan. And Brooklyn. And Queens (Bronx and Staten Island, too, I'm not ignoring you out there). And everyone has a story: I wasn't potty trained (I was, I won't lie about that); I came from a poor family; my parents beat me (I can relate to that one, but it's no excuse for anything. Ever.). My favorite is: I'm a person of color, the target (victim) of racism. Yeah, yeah, give me some more bullshit excuses.
Here we go: I'm a woman of color, too. I just happen to be off-white. Technically, if you want to be picky, I'm a very light beige. My face and arms are pink from being in the hot sun for more than five minutes, so therefore I'm pink and white-and light beige. I can scream discrimination, too: I'm female, American, a woman of color...what else? Honestly, I get so fed up with it all. And-if I just happened to be a one-eyed, black, Jewish lesbian, I would have so much money thrown at me by the government I would never have to work again. Oh-make that a one-eyed, black Jewish lesbian-with a limp. The limp alone would get me a free house.
So if I get busted for an illegal firework display, the above paragraph is my defense.
Perhaps I should go up the road and set off the fireworks in front of the police station. Now there is an idea. I could use a free house. And it had better be air conditioned.
Happy Independence Day. When it's dark, at around ten pm, it's a glass of wine and I'm good to go. I get to light the fuse and find out just how fast I can run....(and by the way, if any one-eyed, black Jewish lesbian-with a limp-is reading this...oh, well...)
Happy Independence Day - nobody in the media will say anything about it - obviously - so I am doing my bit for democracy and my country (MY country, not this poxy racist dump), and I have an 81-shot box of fireworks ready for send off. If it all goes to plan, it will be - loud...Yeah.
I know it is illegal to shoot off fireworks at any time other than November 5th. However, this is my holiday, so I really don't give a crap what the authorities think. I did a reconnaissance mission to find a safe (ish) area not too far away. And I found a small area without trees, enough space, not owned by anyone...so hopefully I will not cause any injuries to myself, or any animals, or trees, or anything. People? Who cares, anyway? If they don't like it, they can cross the road. And duck.
I get really grumpy in extreme heat-as you can tell. Grumpy, sleepy, sneezy...I'm like the seven dwarfs. All of them. And it has been very, very hot. Like I said yesterday, there is no a/c. How absolutely uncivilized is that!
So far I have held a firework display every year for-a long time. This will be my first time doing it alone, without lookouts. It cuts the fun a little, but hey, if I do get caught, I will just feign ignorance. Or, better still, racial profiling. Why not? Everyone else does. There are enough rapists, pedophiles, murderers, thieves and other kinds of felons running around free to overpopulate all of Manhattan. And Brooklyn. And Queens (Bronx and Staten Island, too, I'm not ignoring you out there). And everyone has a story: I wasn't potty trained (I was, I won't lie about that); I came from a poor family; my parents beat me (I can relate to that one, but it's no excuse for anything. Ever.). My favorite is: I'm a person of color, the target (victim) of racism. Yeah, yeah, give me some more bullshit excuses.
Here we go: I'm a woman of color, too. I just happen to be off-white. Technically, if you want to be picky, I'm a very light beige. My face and arms are pink from being in the hot sun for more than five minutes, so therefore I'm pink and white-and light beige. I can scream discrimination, too: I'm female, American, a woman of color...what else? Honestly, I get so fed up with it all. And-if I just happened to be a one-eyed, black, Jewish lesbian, I would have so much money thrown at me by the government I would never have to work again. Oh-make that a one-eyed, black Jewish lesbian-with a limp. The limp alone would get me a free house.
So if I get busted for an illegal firework display, the above paragraph is my defense.
Perhaps I should go up the road and set off the fireworks in front of the police station. Now there is an idea. I could use a free house. And it had better be air conditioned.
Happy Independence Day. When it's dark, at around ten pm, it's a glass of wine and I'm good to go. I get to light the fuse and find out just how fast I can run....(and by the way, if any one-eyed, black Jewish lesbian-with a limp-is reading this...oh, well...)
Friday, 3 July 2015
Deep fried-crispy critter
Nope-not dead, just deep-fried. I was beginning to think I was the kiss of death for computers, too. Since I posted last time, nothing worked. I felt cursed. That was karma? Screw karma. That was not karma, that was Toshiba.
That was also the fact that I had some unidentifiable throat infection-and everyone wanted me to take antibiotics, but I refused. I take enough antibiotics to fell an elephant; I shouldn't have a single germ in my body. But I did-so I dosed myself on echinacea, and ginger tea, and vitamin C...and spent a ridiculous time in bed, since I couldn't walk without falling over, and couldn't see well enough to sit at the keyboard and type (not that the thing worked anyway. The laptop is less than three years old and has conked out more times than a cat has lives. I would throw it out the window-but I would probably hit someone and get done for fracturing someone's skull).
So, I still am mute. At least I can swallow, because the throat infection seems to have cured itself. But it is hotter than Hell here. Really. It hit the high 70s and low 80s two weeks ago, and the entire country stopped. And this week we had 95F- and nothing worked. I had no internet, no television (not that I watch, it's all crap anyway), and no telephone. I couldn't believe that people went outside in the heat, just to lie on any bit of grass they could find, not worried about turning into crispy critters, oblivious to dehydration, heat stroke and, of course, skin cancer. This entire country will be crippled by skin cancer-and nobody will quite understand why. I did tell you they're all idiots, didn't I? (yes, repeatedly. It's worth saying again. Many times).
I don't go out in the blazing heat and sun. I go out, and five minutes later my skin starts to sizzle. I turn the color of beetroot, and then I peel, and I return to being so pale I look like I am ready for embalming. You can imagine how I detested the heat. I know it's summer, but I come from a civilized country. We have air conditioning!! We also have central heating in the winter, not those poxy gas fires that cause homes to burn down, or electric fires that-well, do the same. They tip over, and start really interesting fires (for you pyromaniacs out there, you would be in your element).
We also have indoor toilets. I remember when I first came over - and that was twenty years ago, and things haven't progressed that far since then. I discovered that I was staying in a place with no radiators (it was the middle of winter). Then I discovered that most places didn't have that thing that I call an absolute necessity: central heating. And no air conditioning in the summer-not that we had much of a summer back then. This year will be discussed for the next twenty years (any good, hot summer is discussed for years. That is because people are so boring). Then I walked around and looked in real estate agents' windows, just out of curiosity, to see how much property cost. And that was when I saw it: a specialist feature was-an indoor toilet. Excuse me?? Seriously?? Yes, absolutely seriously. Even now there are homes (and not just outside London, but in London, too) with toilets at the end of the garden. Outhouses. Imagine having to go in the middle of the night in the middle of winter. No wonder people are so bitchy. They call themselves "hardy": outside toilets, no air conditioning, no central heating...I call them backward and stupid.
Many of them also had bathtubs in the kitchen. I don't really know why, since they don't seem to wash very often. The Brits are not known for good hygiene; dirty clothing, BO, bad breath, rotten teeth...not everyone, of course, but enough. Other Europeans make fun of them for being dirty and slovenly. Of course, the French are behind that (very true) rumor. But we are talking about the French-and the words "pot", "kettle" and "black" spring immediately to mind.
When I first came over, I was so alarmed at all this that I spent a day walking around and searching for a launderette. I did find one-and was I ever relieved. I had this feeling that the entire population of London took their laundry down to the Thames and beat everything on the rocks. Perhaps some did; just try standing next to them on the Underground when it's hot. There is a distinct whiff of sewage. And I am only 5'3" - so I come up to people's armpits. And that is why I never travel on the Underground. I'm kind to my stomach.
So there you are, that brings us to the present, where the temperature is about 85-positively chilly. If I had the energy (or wanted to waste a lot of time) I would go into one of the big department stores -because they are air conditioned to placate the tourists-and stay there, possibly until September.
So tomorrow is July 4th-and I've got my box of fireworks ready to go. If I haven't fainted from heat stroke-or spontaneously combusted-or been arrested for illegally sending off fireworks-I will be back online and on this blog tomorrow. How else will you know what it's like over here?
That was also the fact that I had some unidentifiable throat infection-and everyone wanted me to take antibiotics, but I refused. I take enough antibiotics to fell an elephant; I shouldn't have a single germ in my body. But I did-so I dosed myself on echinacea, and ginger tea, and vitamin C...and spent a ridiculous time in bed, since I couldn't walk without falling over, and couldn't see well enough to sit at the keyboard and type (not that the thing worked anyway. The laptop is less than three years old and has conked out more times than a cat has lives. I would throw it out the window-but I would probably hit someone and get done for fracturing someone's skull).
So, I still am mute. At least I can swallow, because the throat infection seems to have cured itself. But it is hotter than Hell here. Really. It hit the high 70s and low 80s two weeks ago, and the entire country stopped. And this week we had 95F- and nothing worked. I had no internet, no television (not that I watch, it's all crap anyway), and no telephone. I couldn't believe that people went outside in the heat, just to lie on any bit of grass they could find, not worried about turning into crispy critters, oblivious to dehydration, heat stroke and, of course, skin cancer. This entire country will be crippled by skin cancer-and nobody will quite understand why. I did tell you they're all idiots, didn't I? (yes, repeatedly. It's worth saying again. Many times).
I don't go out in the blazing heat and sun. I go out, and five minutes later my skin starts to sizzle. I turn the color of beetroot, and then I peel, and I return to being so pale I look like I am ready for embalming. You can imagine how I detested the heat. I know it's summer, but I come from a civilized country. We have air conditioning!! We also have central heating in the winter, not those poxy gas fires that cause homes to burn down, or electric fires that-well, do the same. They tip over, and start really interesting fires (for you pyromaniacs out there, you would be in your element).
We also have indoor toilets. I remember when I first came over - and that was twenty years ago, and things haven't progressed that far since then. I discovered that I was staying in a place with no radiators (it was the middle of winter). Then I discovered that most places didn't have that thing that I call an absolute necessity: central heating. And no air conditioning in the summer-not that we had much of a summer back then. This year will be discussed for the next twenty years (any good, hot summer is discussed for years. That is because people are so boring). Then I walked around and looked in real estate agents' windows, just out of curiosity, to see how much property cost. And that was when I saw it: a specialist feature was-an indoor toilet. Excuse me?? Seriously?? Yes, absolutely seriously. Even now there are homes (and not just outside London, but in London, too) with toilets at the end of the garden. Outhouses. Imagine having to go in the middle of the night in the middle of winter. No wonder people are so bitchy. They call themselves "hardy": outside toilets, no air conditioning, no central heating...I call them backward and stupid.
Many of them also had bathtubs in the kitchen. I don't really know why, since they don't seem to wash very often. The Brits are not known for good hygiene; dirty clothing, BO, bad breath, rotten teeth...not everyone, of course, but enough. Other Europeans make fun of them for being dirty and slovenly. Of course, the French are behind that (very true) rumor. But we are talking about the French-and the words "pot", "kettle" and "black" spring immediately to mind.
When I first came over, I was so alarmed at all this that I spent a day walking around and searching for a launderette. I did find one-and was I ever relieved. I had this feeling that the entire population of London took their laundry down to the Thames and beat everything on the rocks. Perhaps some did; just try standing next to them on the Underground when it's hot. There is a distinct whiff of sewage. And I am only 5'3" - so I come up to people's armpits. And that is why I never travel on the Underground. I'm kind to my stomach.
So there you are, that brings us to the present, where the temperature is about 85-positively chilly. If I had the energy (or wanted to waste a lot of time) I would go into one of the big department stores -because they are air conditioned to placate the tourists-and stay there, possibly until September.
So tomorrow is July 4th-and I've got my box of fireworks ready to go. If I haven't fainted from heat stroke-or spontaneously combusted-or been arrested for illegally sending off fireworks-I will be back online and on this blog tomorrow. How else will you know what it's like over here?
Wednesday, 17 June 2015
Murphy's Revenge: the fertilizer finally hit the fan
I was too smug-so Murphy's Law came into play, reached up and bit me right in the ass. This is what happens when I get too complacent-and a bite in the ass from Mr. Murphy is no fun at all. Promise.
After the last time I posted, I decided to take myself to see a comedy. I was already feeling something noxious coming on: sore throat, swollen glands, balance down the toilet-so I went to see Spy. It was just what I needed-I spent a couple of hours laughing, and when I left I felt better. Until, that is, that evening.
My sore throat was so bad that I could barely swallow, and I lost my voice. So, of course, I waited to see if it would get better on its own. And-it got worse. I finally gave in and went to see my GP, who announced that I either had strep throat or glandular fever. That is what I call covering all the bases. And I knew I had to go to the hospital for my infusions on Monday, so I just drank a lot of ginger tea, ate noodles until I thought I was going to turn into one, and saw one of the doctors while I was infusing. Two swabs were taken-and the results won't be back until Friday. So I am whispering until I know what comes next. Bah. I can't even swear at anyone; nobody takes anyone seriously when they whisper a four-letter word, do they? I'll make up for it when I get my voice back.
It's been a tough couple of weeks, but I'm glad I am able to see the keyboard and get back online. It was definitely a case of life going tits up (there's that word again!), pear-shaped, sideways-and a few other neat expressions to describe everything going wrong (including Murphy's Law!). No more complacence for me (until next time).
There is a lovely expression to describe the past two weeks. The Brits say everything has gone "down the crapper". When I questioned the origin (I'm such an anorak. Inquiring minds need to know these things), I was told that the flushing toilet was invented by Sir Thomas Crapper-so when everything goes wrong, that is what "they" say. And "they" seem to be the residents of-where else?- Essex!!! So when I went to the trusted Google, I read that Thomas Crapper wasn't entitled to call himself "Sir" because he wasn't a knight. And he also never invented anything connected with any toilet, flushing or otherwise. He was a plumber, though. But people started to call it the crapper anyway (some time around World War I).
Well, of course the people from Essex would call it the crapper. They probably aren't able to spell toilet, let alone know what it is used for. I did live there for a few months, and I noticed that they also have rotten aim. Enough said. Fortunately I was only there for about ten months, so no lasting damage was done. I crossed from Essex into London and could feel my IQ go up by about 150 points. I was smart enough to leave when I did-and, as I said, there seems to be no lasting damage. Except, possibly, the occasional drooling.
After the last time I posted, I decided to take myself to see a comedy. I was already feeling something noxious coming on: sore throat, swollen glands, balance down the toilet-so I went to see Spy. It was just what I needed-I spent a couple of hours laughing, and when I left I felt better. Until, that is, that evening.
My sore throat was so bad that I could barely swallow, and I lost my voice. So, of course, I waited to see if it would get better on its own. And-it got worse. I finally gave in and went to see my GP, who announced that I either had strep throat or glandular fever. That is what I call covering all the bases. And I knew I had to go to the hospital for my infusions on Monday, so I just drank a lot of ginger tea, ate noodles until I thought I was going to turn into one, and saw one of the doctors while I was infusing. Two swabs were taken-and the results won't be back until Friday. So I am whispering until I know what comes next. Bah. I can't even swear at anyone; nobody takes anyone seriously when they whisper a four-letter word, do they? I'll make up for it when I get my voice back.
It's been a tough couple of weeks, but I'm glad I am able to see the keyboard and get back online. It was definitely a case of life going tits up (there's that word again!), pear-shaped, sideways-and a few other neat expressions to describe everything going wrong (including Murphy's Law!). No more complacence for me (until next time).
There is a lovely expression to describe the past two weeks. The Brits say everything has gone "down the crapper". When I questioned the origin (I'm such an anorak. Inquiring minds need to know these things), I was told that the flushing toilet was invented by Sir Thomas Crapper-so when everything goes wrong, that is what "they" say. And "they" seem to be the residents of-where else?- Essex!!! So when I went to the trusted Google, I read that Thomas Crapper wasn't entitled to call himself "Sir" because he wasn't a knight. And he also never invented anything connected with any toilet, flushing or otherwise. He was a plumber, though. But people started to call it the crapper anyway (some time around World War I).
Well, of course the people from Essex would call it the crapper. They probably aren't able to spell toilet, let alone know what it is used for. I did live there for a few months, and I noticed that they also have rotten aim. Enough said. Fortunately I was only there for about ten months, so no lasting damage was done. I crossed from Essex into London and could feel my IQ go up by about 150 points. I was smart enough to leave when I did-and, as I said, there seems to be no lasting damage. Except, possibly, the occasional drooling.
Friday, 5 June 2015
Torpedo Tits
Before the moderator has an aneurysm, let me reassure you that there is a species of bird in this country known as the tit. There are blue tits (very cute) and great tits, and I don't know how many other tits-but birdwatchers everywhere are very fond of looking for any kind of tits. What can I say?
Tits abound.
Of course I mention this because I went to see the surgeon last Thursday-and we discussed the other kind of tit-probably the one that had you all smiling (either that, or choking on your muesli). My reconstruction is looming, and there were a few questions I needed to ask Steve. I also cracked the jokes about his patient, double D-and how I would a) never see my feet again, and b) I would have no balance whatsoever and probably spend most of my life on the floor, on my nose, and that would be decidedly unpleasant. Steve's registrar had to turn away to keep from laughing-and Steve, to his credit, thought that was hilarious. That's good, of course. The man will have my life-and my chest-in his hands (literally, too), so he must have at least a little bit of a sense of humor. Who wants a grump?
Whatever. I have to put those jokes to rest now, since repeating them would be a bit old. But they did work (at least a little), so I feel more at ease with my surgeon. The whole ordeal will be a biggie, and nothing (certainly in my case) is ever straightforward. Part of me feels a lot of dread-but the other part of me is looking forward to eventually looking in the mirror and finding something other than ribs and a huge scar. I'm probably being vain-but hey, who gives a crap? It's my body after all.
That is a neat segue into the whole body image minefield. I spent the rest of the week doing my doctor thing, and taking the time to go and do some fun things: I went to the movies, I went to the Barbican with my friend Daniela (it was her birthday, so we celebrated). I also went to Daniela for acupuncture yesterday, so I am feeling a bit better, although I seem to have yet another infection.
And what about the body image minefield? Well, as you regular readers know, Matt (my immunologist) insists that I am too thin, and that I must be anorexic. Obviously he has never seen me eat. And I would love to meet his wife; she is probably so thin that when she turns sideways, she disappears. Perhaps he likes his patients to be big. And that has caused a myriad of problems. I'm not skinny-or anorexic-or too thin. I lost a huge amount of weight after the cancer surgery, but I have put a lot back on-and I feel better when I am a little bit thinner than I was before. I have less joint pain and more energy. And they are making a huge deal out of nothing. It's annoying.
Wouldn't it be fantastic if people would just leave us to be exactly as we are-instead of judging us, trying to change us, trying to manipulate us, and then telling us that it is all for our own good? I think that is one of the biggest problems that women (especially women) face today: we are told by advertisers, by friends, by doctors, by everyone that we are not okay as we are. So we spend millions on plastic surgery, and we apply make up that is so thick it looks like we used a trowel (not to mention any names. Except Joan Collins). We are lifted and tucked to the point where we are unrecognizeable (think the late Joan Rivers, who looked so much better before all that surgery).
People suffer from eating disorders from as young as ten in this country. And children are committing suicide because they are being bullied by their "peers". I'm certain that this happens everywhere, not just here. There seems to be no end in sight.
When it comes to drawing the genetic short straw, I am something of an expert. I'm pretty much an expert in the field of body image, too. I started going grey when I was in my teens-and if I had pulled out every grey hair I would have been bald. I went blonde, auburn, brown, black (that was a big mistake. I looked like Morticia. If I'd stood still long enough, someone would have mistaken me for a corpse and buried me). I went red-I did have some fun as a redhead, but after awhile I got fed up with having to color my hair every six weeks. Ten on the naff scale.
So now I am a mixture of grey and white, with a bit of brown thrown in to confuse everyone. And I don't listen to anyone who says I "should" color my hair. They're not saying it for me; they're saying it for themselves. We need to stop listening to everyone else (especially the advertising community-because they're only interested in grabbing our money) and start listening to ourselves. Guys (and girls)-we are absolutely fine just as we are. If you think you are too fat and that it's very unhealthy, get some help to lose weight (yes, sorry but it is really that simple). Get help. If you think you are "too" anything-too big, too small, too short, too tall-whatever-accept the way you are. If you can't-or won't-do that, get some professional help. Don't waste your money on diets, surgery, self-help books (I know about that last one, believe me!!).
So there you are. It's been really, really difficult for me to accept the fact that I won't have the kind of life I had before the gentamicin-but I've had to accept it, and I am still fighting to get back as much as I can. Not easy. I need to accept a lot of things-life isn't perfect. And life isn't fair (remember the cornerstones of life?).
So there you go. I should have been a therapist. Or a "life coach". What the hell, I am a life coach! And an agony aunt. And a survivor.
So that will be a hundred dollars, please. Or a case of Kettle Chips (large size) and a few Starbucks cappuccinos. How easy to please am I!!
Tits abound.
Of course I mention this because I went to see the surgeon last Thursday-and we discussed the other kind of tit-probably the one that had you all smiling (either that, or choking on your muesli). My reconstruction is looming, and there were a few questions I needed to ask Steve. I also cracked the jokes about his patient, double D-and how I would a) never see my feet again, and b) I would have no balance whatsoever and probably spend most of my life on the floor, on my nose, and that would be decidedly unpleasant. Steve's registrar had to turn away to keep from laughing-and Steve, to his credit, thought that was hilarious. That's good, of course. The man will have my life-and my chest-in his hands (literally, too), so he must have at least a little bit of a sense of humor. Who wants a grump?
Whatever. I have to put those jokes to rest now, since repeating them would be a bit old. But they did work (at least a little), so I feel more at ease with my surgeon. The whole ordeal will be a biggie, and nothing (certainly in my case) is ever straightforward. Part of me feels a lot of dread-but the other part of me is looking forward to eventually looking in the mirror and finding something other than ribs and a huge scar. I'm probably being vain-but hey, who gives a crap? It's my body after all.
That is a neat segue into the whole body image minefield. I spent the rest of the week doing my doctor thing, and taking the time to go and do some fun things: I went to the movies, I went to the Barbican with my friend Daniela (it was her birthday, so we celebrated). I also went to Daniela for acupuncture yesterday, so I am feeling a bit better, although I seem to have yet another infection.
And what about the body image minefield? Well, as you regular readers know, Matt (my immunologist) insists that I am too thin, and that I must be anorexic. Obviously he has never seen me eat. And I would love to meet his wife; she is probably so thin that when she turns sideways, she disappears. Perhaps he likes his patients to be big. And that has caused a myriad of problems. I'm not skinny-or anorexic-or too thin. I lost a huge amount of weight after the cancer surgery, but I have put a lot back on-and I feel better when I am a little bit thinner than I was before. I have less joint pain and more energy. And they are making a huge deal out of nothing. It's annoying.
Wouldn't it be fantastic if people would just leave us to be exactly as we are-instead of judging us, trying to change us, trying to manipulate us, and then telling us that it is all for our own good? I think that is one of the biggest problems that women (especially women) face today: we are told by advertisers, by friends, by doctors, by everyone that we are not okay as we are. So we spend millions on plastic surgery, and we apply make up that is so thick it looks like we used a trowel (not to mention any names. Except Joan Collins). We are lifted and tucked to the point where we are unrecognizeable (think the late Joan Rivers, who looked so much better before all that surgery).
People suffer from eating disorders from as young as ten in this country. And children are committing suicide because they are being bullied by their "peers". I'm certain that this happens everywhere, not just here. There seems to be no end in sight.
When it comes to drawing the genetic short straw, I am something of an expert. I'm pretty much an expert in the field of body image, too. I started going grey when I was in my teens-and if I had pulled out every grey hair I would have been bald. I went blonde, auburn, brown, black (that was a big mistake. I looked like Morticia. If I'd stood still long enough, someone would have mistaken me for a corpse and buried me). I went red-I did have some fun as a redhead, but after awhile I got fed up with having to color my hair every six weeks. Ten on the naff scale.
So now I am a mixture of grey and white, with a bit of brown thrown in to confuse everyone. And I don't listen to anyone who says I "should" color my hair. They're not saying it for me; they're saying it for themselves. We need to stop listening to everyone else (especially the advertising community-because they're only interested in grabbing our money) and start listening to ourselves. Guys (and girls)-we are absolutely fine just as we are. If you think you are too fat and that it's very unhealthy, get some help to lose weight (yes, sorry but it is really that simple). Get help. If you think you are "too" anything-too big, too small, too short, too tall-whatever-accept the way you are. If you can't-or won't-do that, get some professional help. Don't waste your money on diets, surgery, self-help books (I know about that last one, believe me!!).
So there you are. It's been really, really difficult for me to accept the fact that I won't have the kind of life I had before the gentamicin-but I've had to accept it, and I am still fighting to get back as much as I can. Not easy. I need to accept a lot of things-life isn't perfect. And life isn't fair (remember the cornerstones of life?).
So there you go. I should have been a therapist. Or a "life coach". What the hell, I am a life coach! And an agony aunt. And a survivor.
So that will be a hundred dollars, please. Or a case of Kettle Chips (large size) and a few Starbucks cappuccinos. How easy to please am I!!
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