I spy with my little eye, something beginning with C. Umm...got it. It's Cretin. Or, in this country, the plural: cretins. They are absolutely everywhere. Last week one of them nearly shoved me down a set of concrete steps because he was in a rush. He was passing me, and called me a silly cow. So I told him he was a fat, ignorant bastard. But - the fat, ignorant bastard was in too much of a hurry to do anything about it except glare at me. And I held up the crutch with the intent of slamming it into him if he even dared to try something.
That was the only confrontation I had since I last posted. And I didn't even use the F word. Not once. Well, good for me, I learned my lesson with the Neanderthal outside the hospital two weeks ago. Of course, I have called a few people inbeciles...but not fucking imbeciles, so that doesn't really count. I am watching my temper-discretion is the better part of being punched in the face, or stabbed in the chest. I quite like having my nose in the middle of my face-and I have gone through a lot of pain with this chest; in a few weeks I will have the final reconstruction, changing the current implants for permanent ones. I don't want anyone to screw that up (plus, being stabbed in the chest would be a little bit painful, I suspect).
I just keep reminding myself that many-perhaps most- of the current crop of idiots are descended from thieves, rapists, murderers and lunatics-and that is just the royal family-so what behavior can I reasonably expect from them? And what can you expect from (biological-maybe) males whose idea of a great night out is to go to the pub and drink themselves comatose, then go out and shag anything that is still moving: their sisters/mothers/daughters-anyone. No wonder there is so much inbreeding in this country. They say that Britain is where men are men-and the sheep are nervous. Just go out into the countryside; all the sheep stand with their backs to the wall and have their legs crossed. No wonder sheep go around in packs. But, since most of the men are probably the size of pinheads, the sheep are probably pretty safe anyway. Poor sheep. Glad I'm a vegetarian. I'll bet that at Christmas even the turkeys aren't safe.
I also keep reminding myself that the average IQ in this country is 80-but I think it's more like 40. And my friends (yes, I do have British friends-but they don't know about this blog, or I would have been beaten up by now) are either the exceptions, or the braindeads are in the minority. It does feel like a very large minority- and I hope it isn't the majority.
I still believe that the majority of people in this country are decent, polite (ish), and reasonably kind. But I also believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, so what do I know? Oh, yes- and I believe that the television works because it has little people running around in it. And the Brits say that we Americans don't have a sense of humor (or irony).
I've done all the things I was supposed to do since I last posted-except go to the gym. I struggled. For some strange reason I woke up one morning with severe pain in my left leg-and I do mean severe. I could barely walk, and I tried to find out why-with no success. So I thought about the symptoms (easy: pain, pain and more pain), and I hobbled around and decided that I didn't break anything, or I wouldn't be able to walk at all. So I consulted the Great God Google-I went to some of the education sites (like the National Institute of Health). On a hunch I checked out the vitamins I'm taking. I know that Tamoxifen has side effects (because I've experienced them over the last two and a half years). But vitamins? Could it be possible?
I am-or, rather, I was-of the school of thought that maintains that if a little is good, a lot is probably better. So, instead of taking a little vitamin D3 I took a lot. By a lot I mean 10,000 units a day (rather than a more normal dose of, say, 2000). Vitamin D isn't water soluble, and remains in the liver-and too much can cause all kinds of problems (including muscle, joint and nerve pain). Oh, bugger (and there is another pound for the swear box).
I did this research last Monday, and stopped taking the D3 just to see if stopping would have any effect. I didn't do anything else, really. I mostly rested my leg when I didn't have to walk. And today the pain is beginning to subside. So that's another lesson learned the hard way (for me, what other way is there?).
We just got through another Valentine's Day, and I feel like I need to mention that, because I'm sure a lot of women are flying solo, just like me. I'm happily divorced, and the longer I stay solo the more I realize that I no longer have to live with someone snoring in my ear, or nicking the duvet-or leaving the toilet seat up (yes, that is a pain-especially in the middle of the night, when I sometimes got up to go and got a nasty surprise). And I had to contend with his mother, who hated that he had married an American in the first place. She once told me that English women darn their husbands socks when they have holes in them. I turned around and said that if he wants his socks mended-rather than buying new ones, like we Americans do, because we aren't stupid, he should sew them himself, since he isn't crippled. That didn't go over too well-but I let her know that I couldn't care less what she thought. That is how to handle the mother-in-law from Hell.
Did you know that numerous studies have shown that married men live longer-and so do single women? Now there is something to ponder!
Tuesday, 16 February 2016
Wednesday, 3 February 2016
Punxsutawney Phil to the rescue
Yesterday was Groundhog Day-and I was really looking forward to it. The tradition, the rituals-they're so much fun, and at the moment, all across America, we all need a bit of fun. Here in this country, though, people can't understand what the fuss is about.
So yesterday I was in yet another confrontation with a local moron. I was talking to an acquaintance over a coffee,when someone she knew decided to push in and demand to know why Americans make such a fuss over a pig. So I said that if she thinks that a groundhog is a pig, she has as much intelligence as she has manners:none. But she kept going, really nasty, and said that nobody in this country would worship a rodent. I thought: thank you, God, for this perfect opportunity...so I shot back that the braindead Brits worship rodents in the form of scroungers and parasites - ie, the royal family. They live off other people, I said. Aren't you incredibly cretinous to even give them the time of day? I asked. I thought she was going to have an aneurism. She turned beet red, and I said that if she was going to be so obnoxious and so obviously ignorant and uneducated ( like the rest of the population, I said), she should keep her idiocy to herself and go and interrupt someone else.
So that was yesterday- and it's another confrontation I didn't want to have, since the last one (last Friday) nearly got me beaten up. Sometimes I am just too aggressive for my own good.
And Monday was -get this- National Sickie Day. And these idiots call us stupid? Well, it seems to be the day when more workers call in sick than any other day in the year. I don't know who makes these things up, but I found it really hilarious. Apparently, the number one excuse for not going into work is a sick child-only good if you have small children, obviously. It gets a little dodgy when you have children in their 20s. And the number two excuse is having to go to a funeral.
I can relate to that excuse. When I was working and I didn't feel like going in, I killed off my grandmother and said I had to go to her funeral. I didn't feel badly, because she was already dead-so I decided that she wouldn't mind. This, of course, only works twice (unless you're a Mormon). I also killed off my grandfather, my parents, siblings - I killed off my entire family. Several times. No wonder they're not speaking to me.
I had several weeks of running to the hospitals for various tests. Every day was something else: I've been magnetized (again), bled, poked, prodded-I think that if I had stopped moving for more than a few minutes, someone would have been ready to dissect me. As far as all the scans were concerned, if you stood next to me you were in danger of never being able to have children.
On Friday I went for my very last scan (for now, at least)-which turned out to be absolutely normal. But before that I had to go to the bank; as I turned the corner, minding my own business, some Neanderthal came up and tried to push me out of his way. He could have gone around me-there was plenty of space-but no, he decided that he wanted to move me. So he pushed. This was the third time this happened on Friday, and I turned around and said (in a normal voice, I don't shout): are you blind? What the fuck do you think you're doing? Now-I do swear, but I don't swear outside my house (unless it is very, very quietly). But I just let this asshole have it. And he started to scream at me at top volume. Now, this imbecile had to be at least six feet tall, and quite big, and he started to scream at me for swearing. Then he said he didn't see the stick-did I think he was a horse (or, as he said, because these plonkers don't speak decent English) "an 'orse"-so I said maybe the back end. By this time he was screaming, and I calmly said that he could have seen me, he pushed me deliberately, and that he is clearly a braindead Neanderthal with no manners whatsoever-and a nutter for screaming at the top of his lungs, because I'm not deaf. Then he screamed that I am an old lady, and that all old people should be shot. I then snapped at him and called him a blind imbecile with a tiny little willy and a face like a baboon. He looked like he was going to take a swing at me-so I said you've got everyone's attention inside the bank (there was a long line inside and the door was open), show us what you've got so we can all have a good laugh on a Friday. He turned and stormed away, still calling me an old lady and saying a few choice words (not so) under his breath.
This was not my finest hour. I know I should button it, but I just got fed up with these useless cretins pushing- they do look, but they push anyway. Maybe they think I can just sprout wings and fly so that they don't have to move. There are times when I don't even want to leave the house-and that is ridiculous, because then I am allowing the local braindead Neanderthals to make my life a misery. But this has been going on for a very long time.
The last thing I want to do is get in the habit of swearing at people-it only reduces me to their level, and that is pretty low, considering that they are bottom feeding, scum sucking reptiles (yes, I called him that, too). But I can walk out of my house and go in any direction, and find foul-mouthed, shrieking harpies, This is London, and they are everywhere (this is England, and they are everywhere). I must stop myself from cranking it up a few notches and becoming one of them.
So what did I do at the weekend? Well, I discovered during all my consultants' appointments last week that all the tests were negative. Every system is functioning perfectly-I only have some mild lung damage (called bronchiectasis, if you are an anorak, as I am). Every other organ system is absolutely fine. That was such great news I wanted to celebrate-so I called home, and told all my friends the good news. This means that everything I was told by the alarmist, vicious incompetent Matt Buckland was a lie. As if I didn't know that already.
Then Friday happened, and I went back to my little shoebox and stayed there. I walked very early in the morning, went to the gym when it opened at 7am, did only what I had to do-and then sat. I was so demoralized that I just sat. I did clean my kitchen, but not until Monday. I just sat. At one point, I decided that my life is just a huge cosmic pile of stinking shit. But that feeling of hopelessness and depression didn't last long. I changed my mind.
The whole depression/hopelessness/misery attitude stayed with me from Friday to yesterday afternoon. I picked myself up and cheered myself up when I realized that it was Groundhog Day-and that is about tradition, about ritual, about celebrations and partying. Who cares if poor old Phil gets it wrong more often than he gets it right? So do I. I just hope that, having dragged the terrified groundhog out of its burrow to be met by the world's press and then tormented and verbally abused, someone gave Phil lots of treats, fed him, gave him a cuddle. I wonder: how do you know whether Phil is male or female? Just wondering...
I'm back to normal now, and taking myself to see Spotlight, which should be a great film. I couldn't go to the movies two years ago; even last year it was difficult, because I would stand up as the lights came up and come close to falling over. I'm still getting better. Despite all the odds-the infections, the surgeries, all that-I'm still getting better.
What I need isn't a bag of Kettle Chips (although that would be nice). What I need is an attitude adjustment. I can't allow these imbeciles to change me into a harridan, someone who hates everyone. I need to put things into perspective. Since nearly all the hospital appointments are finished, I will have plenty of time to do that. Although...the last time I decided to change my attitude I discovered that I had cancer. So maybe I'd be better off making these plans silently!
So yesterday I was in yet another confrontation with a local moron. I was talking to an acquaintance over a coffee,when someone she knew decided to push in and demand to know why Americans make such a fuss over a pig. So I said that if she thinks that a groundhog is a pig, she has as much intelligence as she has manners:none. But she kept going, really nasty, and said that nobody in this country would worship a rodent. I thought: thank you, God, for this perfect opportunity...so I shot back that the braindead Brits worship rodents in the form of scroungers and parasites - ie, the royal family. They live off other people, I said. Aren't you incredibly cretinous to even give them the time of day? I asked. I thought she was going to have an aneurism. She turned beet red, and I said that if she was going to be so obnoxious and so obviously ignorant and uneducated ( like the rest of the population, I said), she should keep her idiocy to herself and go and interrupt someone else.
So that was yesterday- and it's another confrontation I didn't want to have, since the last one (last Friday) nearly got me beaten up. Sometimes I am just too aggressive for my own good.
And Monday was -get this- National Sickie Day. And these idiots call us stupid? Well, it seems to be the day when more workers call in sick than any other day in the year. I don't know who makes these things up, but I found it really hilarious. Apparently, the number one excuse for not going into work is a sick child-only good if you have small children, obviously. It gets a little dodgy when you have children in their 20s. And the number two excuse is having to go to a funeral.
I can relate to that excuse. When I was working and I didn't feel like going in, I killed off my grandmother and said I had to go to her funeral. I didn't feel badly, because she was already dead-so I decided that she wouldn't mind. This, of course, only works twice (unless you're a Mormon). I also killed off my grandfather, my parents, siblings - I killed off my entire family. Several times. No wonder they're not speaking to me.
I had several weeks of running to the hospitals for various tests. Every day was something else: I've been magnetized (again), bled, poked, prodded-I think that if I had stopped moving for more than a few minutes, someone would have been ready to dissect me. As far as all the scans were concerned, if you stood next to me you were in danger of never being able to have children.
On Friday I went for my very last scan (for now, at least)-which turned out to be absolutely normal. But before that I had to go to the bank; as I turned the corner, minding my own business, some Neanderthal came up and tried to push me out of his way. He could have gone around me-there was plenty of space-but no, he decided that he wanted to move me. So he pushed. This was the third time this happened on Friday, and I turned around and said (in a normal voice, I don't shout): are you blind? What the fuck do you think you're doing? Now-I do swear, but I don't swear outside my house (unless it is very, very quietly). But I just let this asshole have it. And he started to scream at me at top volume. Now, this imbecile had to be at least six feet tall, and quite big, and he started to scream at me for swearing. Then he said he didn't see the stick-did I think he was a horse (or, as he said, because these plonkers don't speak decent English) "an 'orse"-so I said maybe the back end. By this time he was screaming, and I calmly said that he could have seen me, he pushed me deliberately, and that he is clearly a braindead Neanderthal with no manners whatsoever-and a nutter for screaming at the top of his lungs, because I'm not deaf. Then he screamed that I am an old lady, and that all old people should be shot. I then snapped at him and called him a blind imbecile with a tiny little willy and a face like a baboon. He looked like he was going to take a swing at me-so I said you've got everyone's attention inside the bank (there was a long line inside and the door was open), show us what you've got so we can all have a good laugh on a Friday. He turned and stormed away, still calling me an old lady and saying a few choice words (not so) under his breath.
This was not my finest hour. I know I should button it, but I just got fed up with these useless cretins pushing- they do look, but they push anyway. Maybe they think I can just sprout wings and fly so that they don't have to move. There are times when I don't even want to leave the house-and that is ridiculous, because then I am allowing the local braindead Neanderthals to make my life a misery. But this has been going on for a very long time.
The last thing I want to do is get in the habit of swearing at people-it only reduces me to their level, and that is pretty low, considering that they are bottom feeding, scum sucking reptiles (yes, I called him that, too). But I can walk out of my house and go in any direction, and find foul-mouthed, shrieking harpies, This is London, and they are everywhere (this is England, and they are everywhere). I must stop myself from cranking it up a few notches and becoming one of them.
So what did I do at the weekend? Well, I discovered during all my consultants' appointments last week that all the tests were negative. Every system is functioning perfectly-I only have some mild lung damage (called bronchiectasis, if you are an anorak, as I am). Every other organ system is absolutely fine. That was such great news I wanted to celebrate-so I called home, and told all my friends the good news. This means that everything I was told by the alarmist, vicious incompetent Matt Buckland was a lie. As if I didn't know that already.
Then Friday happened, and I went back to my little shoebox and stayed there. I walked very early in the morning, went to the gym when it opened at 7am, did only what I had to do-and then sat. I was so demoralized that I just sat. I did clean my kitchen, but not until Monday. I just sat. At one point, I decided that my life is just a huge cosmic pile of stinking shit. But that feeling of hopelessness and depression didn't last long. I changed my mind.
The whole depression/hopelessness/misery attitude stayed with me from Friday to yesterday afternoon. I picked myself up and cheered myself up when I realized that it was Groundhog Day-and that is about tradition, about ritual, about celebrations and partying. Who cares if poor old Phil gets it wrong more often than he gets it right? So do I. I just hope that, having dragged the terrified groundhog out of its burrow to be met by the world's press and then tormented and verbally abused, someone gave Phil lots of treats, fed him, gave him a cuddle. I wonder: how do you know whether Phil is male or female? Just wondering...
I'm back to normal now, and taking myself to see Spotlight, which should be a great film. I couldn't go to the movies two years ago; even last year it was difficult, because I would stand up as the lights came up and come close to falling over. I'm still getting better. Despite all the odds-the infections, the surgeries, all that-I'm still getting better.
What I need isn't a bag of Kettle Chips (although that would be nice). What I need is an attitude adjustment. I can't allow these imbeciles to change me into a harridan, someone who hates everyone. I need to put things into perspective. Since nearly all the hospital appointments are finished, I will have plenty of time to do that. Although...the last time I decided to change my attitude I discovered that I had cancer. So maybe I'd be better off making these plans silently!
Sunday, 24 January 2016
Bruised, blood-letted, irradiated, battered-but (more or less) undaunted
Today is the first day I have been able to sit at the computer and type. I was beginning to think I would have to learn to type with my nose-since nobody has touched it. Yet. There is still time...
Last Friday I had to go to have a CT Angiogram. It's a scan of the heart, just to show how the arteries are working. My cardiologist was so happy (yeah, and so was I. Obviously.) that I don't have an iffy valve that he wants to check the way the heart is working. That's fine with me: my heart is, after all, number 1 on my list of top ten organs. So I went along, suspecting nothing. My first mistake. The tech who was to insert a cannula for the radioactive contrast (here we go again. More radiation. Nobody who ever wants a child should ever stand anywhere near me), made such a mess of my arm that he caused a lump that was the size of a goose egg. No exaggeration: a goose egg.
These idiots seem to think they know my veins better than I do. Oh, he said, I can do this. Really? I couldn't move my right arm, since the lump was right at the elbow. So, he then went over to the left arm-and did the same thing. I was swearing (under my breath, of course), and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. That is how much it hurt. When he finally found a vein, inserted the contrast, and called in the doctor who was to do the scan, I was told I needed beta blockers to bring my blood pressure and heart rate down below a certain level-otherwise the test would have to be repeated (and I said, give me the blockers, because you are not going to repeat this in my lifetime).
I don't know how I had the strength to get home. I couldn't bear to have anything touching either arm, couldn't bend my arms, and felt like throwing up, I was in that much pain. But I finally got back-and very few people came near enough to crash into me, I must have looked that threatening. I got in the door and started to cry. And swear. And I grabbed an ice pack and a tube of Arnica (great homeopathic remedy for bruises, I've been using it for years), had to peel my shirt off, and that was my weekend. I spent it rubbing in the Arnica, and really sobbed for a couple of days (such a wuss). I also had to wear short sleeved shirts for a few days.
By Saturday afternoon my arms were completely black. Not black and blue: black. My right arm had this huge lump so I couldn't move my elbow-and the whole area was swollen and black. Part of my left arm was just about the same. I looked like I had some kind of rotting skin disease, like my arms were going to fall off any second (serves me right for watching The Walking Dead, doesn't it?). And I was in excruciating pain for a few days. And swearing? If I had put a pound into the swear box every time I swore (since Friday), I could have bought a round trip ticket to Australia. First class.
Tuesday I had to go to the hospital for round two: another CT scan, but this time of my lungs. More contrast. More radiation. I wondered if I was starting to glow. And don't you know, the tech this time had to go into my right wrist to find a viable vein. So when she was finished, my wrist was just as black as the rest of my arm. Oh, joy. A week of not being able to wear anything that touched either arm, a week of being unable to do anything that involved actually moving either arm-the only saving grace was that I couldn't do housework. Such a shame (yeah, right?).
Everything changed on Wednesday, and I finally got some good news. By "good" I mean-good. I went to see my immunologist and chest consultant in their combined clinic. They were great. They made time for me, which is something I find very unusual, given how overloaded everyone in the NHS seems to be when it comes to spending any time with their patients.
The short version: preliminary reports from the angiogram show that my valve isn't the only part of my heart that is absolutely fine. My heart is absolutely fine. It'll probably outlast the rest of me. And the preliminary report of my lung scan shows that the mass Dr. Dimples saw in the first scan is only a cyst, not anything sinister. I do have some lung damage-something called "bronchiectasis", for those of you who are a little nerdy (like me) and want to check out the details on the great God Google. But the damage is very mild, which both consultants said was very unusual, and which made them very pleased indeed. Great news for me, since my lungs come in at number 2, just a whisker behind the heart.
This is all very important, because I have been walking around for eleven and a half years (since a doctor in Pennsylvania discovered the presence of CVID), thinking that I was living on borrowed time. And the doctors over at the Royal London never gave me any encouragement when it came to any ideas of life expectancy. They were all dismissive. And here at the Royal Free, Dr.S and Dr. J (using initials so I don't piss anyone off) have said that I could live a normal lifespan-a normal, healthy lifespan. Dr. J said that he might take me off the whacking big dose of antibiotics I've been nebulizing since 2010. We'll see about that when I see them both again in May.
I nearly skipped out of the hospital-but, of course, that isn't something I will be able to do (possibly ever) unless I want to fall over and end up in plaster from head to toe. No skipping.
I had my infusions on Thursday-and they added an iron infusion. You are, they said, anemic. And I said, well, if you would stop taking my blood, I wouldn't be anemic, would I? Talk about a no-brainer. So, seven hours later, I got back to my little shoebox, and I have been here ever since. But now I have lumps on both arms that are much smaller than they were last week-and the bruises are nearly gone, so I don't look like I have a terrible disease that will cause my arms to drop off.
I can keep you up to date now. But at the moment, I think I'm going to hit the Kettle Chips. At least I won't die of heart disease. Or lung disease. I'll probably snuff it at the hands of some lunatic from Essex.
Last Friday I had to go to have a CT Angiogram. It's a scan of the heart, just to show how the arteries are working. My cardiologist was so happy (yeah, and so was I. Obviously.) that I don't have an iffy valve that he wants to check the way the heart is working. That's fine with me: my heart is, after all, number 1 on my list of top ten organs. So I went along, suspecting nothing. My first mistake. The tech who was to insert a cannula for the radioactive contrast (here we go again. More radiation. Nobody who ever wants a child should ever stand anywhere near me), made such a mess of my arm that he caused a lump that was the size of a goose egg. No exaggeration: a goose egg.
These idiots seem to think they know my veins better than I do. Oh, he said, I can do this. Really? I couldn't move my right arm, since the lump was right at the elbow. So, he then went over to the left arm-and did the same thing. I was swearing (under my breath, of course), and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. That is how much it hurt. When he finally found a vein, inserted the contrast, and called in the doctor who was to do the scan, I was told I needed beta blockers to bring my blood pressure and heart rate down below a certain level-otherwise the test would have to be repeated (and I said, give me the blockers, because you are not going to repeat this in my lifetime).
I don't know how I had the strength to get home. I couldn't bear to have anything touching either arm, couldn't bend my arms, and felt like throwing up, I was in that much pain. But I finally got back-and very few people came near enough to crash into me, I must have looked that threatening. I got in the door and started to cry. And swear. And I grabbed an ice pack and a tube of Arnica (great homeopathic remedy for bruises, I've been using it for years), had to peel my shirt off, and that was my weekend. I spent it rubbing in the Arnica, and really sobbed for a couple of days (such a wuss). I also had to wear short sleeved shirts for a few days.
By Saturday afternoon my arms were completely black. Not black and blue: black. My right arm had this huge lump so I couldn't move my elbow-and the whole area was swollen and black. Part of my left arm was just about the same. I looked like I had some kind of rotting skin disease, like my arms were going to fall off any second (serves me right for watching The Walking Dead, doesn't it?). And I was in excruciating pain for a few days. And swearing? If I had put a pound into the swear box every time I swore (since Friday), I could have bought a round trip ticket to Australia. First class.
Tuesday I had to go to the hospital for round two: another CT scan, but this time of my lungs. More contrast. More radiation. I wondered if I was starting to glow. And don't you know, the tech this time had to go into my right wrist to find a viable vein. So when she was finished, my wrist was just as black as the rest of my arm. Oh, joy. A week of not being able to wear anything that touched either arm, a week of being unable to do anything that involved actually moving either arm-the only saving grace was that I couldn't do housework. Such a shame (yeah, right?).
Everything changed on Wednesday, and I finally got some good news. By "good" I mean-good. I went to see my immunologist and chest consultant in their combined clinic. They were great. They made time for me, which is something I find very unusual, given how overloaded everyone in the NHS seems to be when it comes to spending any time with their patients.
The short version: preliminary reports from the angiogram show that my valve isn't the only part of my heart that is absolutely fine. My heart is absolutely fine. It'll probably outlast the rest of me. And the preliminary report of my lung scan shows that the mass Dr. Dimples saw in the first scan is only a cyst, not anything sinister. I do have some lung damage-something called "bronchiectasis", for those of you who are a little nerdy (like me) and want to check out the details on the great God Google. But the damage is very mild, which both consultants said was very unusual, and which made them very pleased indeed. Great news for me, since my lungs come in at number 2, just a whisker behind the heart.
This is all very important, because I have been walking around for eleven and a half years (since a doctor in Pennsylvania discovered the presence of CVID), thinking that I was living on borrowed time. And the doctors over at the Royal London never gave me any encouragement when it came to any ideas of life expectancy. They were all dismissive. And here at the Royal Free, Dr.S and Dr. J (using initials so I don't piss anyone off) have said that I could live a normal lifespan-a normal, healthy lifespan. Dr. J said that he might take me off the whacking big dose of antibiotics I've been nebulizing since 2010. We'll see about that when I see them both again in May.
I nearly skipped out of the hospital-but, of course, that isn't something I will be able to do (possibly ever) unless I want to fall over and end up in plaster from head to toe. No skipping.
I had my infusions on Thursday-and they added an iron infusion. You are, they said, anemic. And I said, well, if you would stop taking my blood, I wouldn't be anemic, would I? Talk about a no-brainer. So, seven hours later, I got back to my little shoebox, and I have been here ever since. But now I have lumps on both arms that are much smaller than they were last week-and the bruises are nearly gone, so I don't look like I have a terrible disease that will cause my arms to drop off.
I can keep you up to date now. But at the moment, I think I'm going to hit the Kettle Chips. At least I won't die of heart disease. Or lung disease. I'll probably snuff it at the hands of some lunatic from Essex.
Wednesday, 13 January 2016
Beware the posse of shysters
I was on the phone the other day with Jason, a man I've known for some time-and who loves to talk so much that we were on the phone for two hours-long enough for my ear to want to drop off. But-Jason is the person who is handling the complaint against the crooked and incompetent cowboy builders, Mulalley (of Essex. No surprise there!). So we had a long chat.
Shyster is a term that means crook or thief, by the way. I should do a glossary of terminology, shouldn't I, since I have lived here for so long that I use all the local expressions (especially the four letter ones). And, before I forget, a friend of mine loves this blog, and has emailed me to define "pillock". A pillock is roughly the same as a plonker: an idiot, a fool, a bit of a wanker. It's close to a prat-but a prat is more obnoxious than a pillock, who is usually a clueless idiot. So, if you are reading this and aren't in this country, you have a few more derogatory names to call someone before you turn and sprint for a safe distance between you. Better to be safe than sorry, I always say.
During the course of the conversation, we were talking about our definition of pillocks-and shysters (I probably misspelled it, but you get the idea, anyway): personal injury lawyers. Many incompetent doctors (the cripplers: past history indeed). Politicians (that's an obvious one). Builders (really!). Insurance salespeople. Traffic wardens. And, everyone's favorite: the tax inspector. Everyone who has ever been audited will have them at the top of the list.
Jason hasn't been too well, and hasn't been able to chase up the Ombudsman about the Mulalley complaint. So, I told him a traffic warden story to cheer him up. It's the absolute truth, and he hates them, since he always gets ticketed when his meter runs out.
I remember my car being towed, and having to pay a huge amount in fines-and I was innocent, so I decided to fight the ticket in court. This was my first and only time in an English courtroom, which was very small and presided over by a magistrate. The traffic warden fought, I fought, and the magistrate believed me, so I got the money back. And-a few months later, I was walking down the same street and saw the same traffic guy (we call them yellow perils over here, because of the color of the uniforms. They make really good targets if you want to run over one of them).
This prat was standing next to a car that was about to run out of time. He stood right next to this old banger (if it had been a fancy car I wouldn't have bothered, but it wasn't), waiting for the two minutes to be up, and starting to write out a ticket. So I went up to him (he didn't recognize me), and started calling him names. You piece of crap, I said, at least give someone a few minutes before you start writing. I was holding my keys, so he looked at me and wrote out the ticket and put it on the windshield. Wow, you scumbag, I said (you can tell I was really enjoying this-far too much), and he stood there and wrote out a second ticket. Then I called him a fat, ugly bastard and said that he was too fat and ugly to ever get a date. There went a third ticket. This went on for another couple of tickets; I insulted his mother, his parentage, said he should have a bath more than once a decade...and on and on I went, and the tickets were piling up.
Finally, I looked at him and laughed, and said "you really are an asshole. This isn't even my car". And I turned and walked away. I hope he got fired.
So I cheered Jason up tremendously, and finally got off the phone. Then I had to call the Ebac people-the makers of my dehumidifier, which decided to stop working the other day. I did everything to try to fix it myself. I switched it off and back on, disconnected it and waited to see if it would reset itself-I even kicked it a few times. No luck. So I finally got in touch with some customer service person, explained the situation, and pointed out that the same thing happened last year, and I was without the machine for seven weeks because the company was closed over Christmas. This guy listened, and I could hear him sniff as he said "Madam (The only thing worse than calling me madam is calling me darling. I verbally abuse anyone who calls me darling-unless I'm their darling, of course), you must have done something, because these machines are built to British standard." Ah, there is a God, and I got the perfect opening to shoot back "yes, and so was the Titanic".
The Ebac is being fixed, should be back next Tuesday-and I need to be careful when I switch it on just to make sure they haven't rigged it to explode.
Yesterday was a week since my throat biopsy, and it has been a pretty good week. I've whacked a few idiots with my elbow crutch, I've entertained a few acquaintances who were a little on the down side, I've been to the gym and I've done a lot of walking-even though it rained. And rained. And rained. Still, I have both legs working (more or less), so who can complain? Life is good. Let's see how many more idiots I can insult. My swear box needs filling up.
Shyster is a term that means crook or thief, by the way. I should do a glossary of terminology, shouldn't I, since I have lived here for so long that I use all the local expressions (especially the four letter ones). And, before I forget, a friend of mine loves this blog, and has emailed me to define "pillock". A pillock is roughly the same as a plonker: an idiot, a fool, a bit of a wanker. It's close to a prat-but a prat is more obnoxious than a pillock, who is usually a clueless idiot. So, if you are reading this and aren't in this country, you have a few more derogatory names to call someone before you turn and sprint for a safe distance between you. Better to be safe than sorry, I always say.
During the course of the conversation, we were talking about our definition of pillocks-and shysters (I probably misspelled it, but you get the idea, anyway): personal injury lawyers. Many incompetent doctors (the cripplers: past history indeed). Politicians (that's an obvious one). Builders (really!). Insurance salespeople. Traffic wardens. And, everyone's favorite: the tax inspector. Everyone who has ever been audited will have them at the top of the list.
Jason hasn't been too well, and hasn't been able to chase up the Ombudsman about the Mulalley complaint. So, I told him a traffic warden story to cheer him up. It's the absolute truth, and he hates them, since he always gets ticketed when his meter runs out.
I remember my car being towed, and having to pay a huge amount in fines-and I was innocent, so I decided to fight the ticket in court. This was my first and only time in an English courtroom, which was very small and presided over by a magistrate. The traffic warden fought, I fought, and the magistrate believed me, so I got the money back. And-a few months later, I was walking down the same street and saw the same traffic guy (we call them yellow perils over here, because of the color of the uniforms. They make really good targets if you want to run over one of them).
This prat was standing next to a car that was about to run out of time. He stood right next to this old banger (if it had been a fancy car I wouldn't have bothered, but it wasn't), waiting for the two minutes to be up, and starting to write out a ticket. So I went up to him (he didn't recognize me), and started calling him names. You piece of crap, I said, at least give someone a few minutes before you start writing. I was holding my keys, so he looked at me and wrote out the ticket and put it on the windshield. Wow, you scumbag, I said (you can tell I was really enjoying this-far too much), and he stood there and wrote out a second ticket. Then I called him a fat, ugly bastard and said that he was too fat and ugly to ever get a date. There went a third ticket. This went on for another couple of tickets; I insulted his mother, his parentage, said he should have a bath more than once a decade...and on and on I went, and the tickets were piling up.
Finally, I looked at him and laughed, and said "you really are an asshole. This isn't even my car". And I turned and walked away. I hope he got fired.
So I cheered Jason up tremendously, and finally got off the phone. Then I had to call the Ebac people-the makers of my dehumidifier, which decided to stop working the other day. I did everything to try to fix it myself. I switched it off and back on, disconnected it and waited to see if it would reset itself-I even kicked it a few times. No luck. So I finally got in touch with some customer service person, explained the situation, and pointed out that the same thing happened last year, and I was without the machine for seven weeks because the company was closed over Christmas. This guy listened, and I could hear him sniff as he said "Madam (The only thing worse than calling me madam is calling me darling. I verbally abuse anyone who calls me darling-unless I'm their darling, of course), you must have done something, because these machines are built to British standard." Ah, there is a God, and I got the perfect opening to shoot back "yes, and so was the Titanic".
The Ebac is being fixed, should be back next Tuesday-and I need to be careful when I switch it on just to make sure they haven't rigged it to explode.
Yesterday was a week since my throat biopsy, and it has been a pretty good week. I've whacked a few idiots with my elbow crutch, I've entertained a few acquaintances who were a little on the down side, I've been to the gym and I've done a lot of walking-even though it rained. And rained. And rained. Still, I have both legs working (more or less), so who can complain? Life is good. Let's see how many more idiots I can insult. My swear box needs filling up.
Saturday, 9 January 2016
May the farce be with you
It's back to business as usual: the end of the first week of the new year and nothing has changed. And it's raining. Again. I didn't break any resolutions, though. That's because I didn't make any. Whenever I do, I've broken them before the first two days are out.
Actually, I did make one resolution-kind of. I said the same thing I said last year: I would do my best to be kind to the brain-dead. The brain-damaged. The Brits (it's all the same, really). Plus all the people who have flooded into this country and brought their quaint customs with them: the desire to live off the taxpayers and never work a day in their lives, the absolute refusal to bathe, and, of course, the treatment of women as if we are all pieces of furniture. It is really, truly amazing. What year is this? If a man hit me I would take the sharpest tool I could find and stick it in the tool's eye. And speaking of hitting...
My resolve to be kind lasted until last Monday. I was walking up the road, minding my own business, and some douchebag came up behind me and pushed me out of the way, right into another person who was walking the other way. This jerk said "sorry, darling" - and. honestly, it just slipped out. I said, loudly, and as sarcastically as I could: "well, fuck you, darling". He turned around, and I raised my hand and raised the appropriate finger, and said "you imbecile". I thought he was going to hit me-but there were several people behind me, so he thought better of it and walked away. Someone behind me said "good for you"-of course, if the imbecile had come back, people would probably have just watched. I suppose that is "human" nature?
So there went my resolution of 2016. It's very difficult for me to accept that people (not everyone, thank goodness, but a lot) are descended from a long line of thieves, rapists, murderers and lunatics-and that just describes the "royal" family. So many others are quite obviously the product of centuries of inbreeding. No wonder the average IQ of people in this country is around 70. I'm surprised that it is that high. So, really, I have no excuse for being upset when people act like imbeciles.Eeek!!
On Tuesday I had my second throat biopsy. I was really worried; I was afraid that it would be as painful as the first one, in October, when I felt like someone had hit my throat with a flame thrower-and punched me in the face while I was sedated. All that and they had to repeat it because they didn't take enough tissue for a biopsy. Incompetent, or what?
So this time I spoke with the consultant beforehand, and asked him to give me his word that he would do the biopsy-and not allow anyone else to do it. It was the same operation-and afterwards I felt so much better. I had some swelling and soreness, but nothing like the first time they performed this. It just goes to show you how much better it is to be treated by a qualified surgeon. I think that last time they must have taken someone off the street, given him a pair of gloves and a scalpel, and told him to knock himself out. Well-at least I hope they gave him a pair of gloves!
I wasn't completely over the biopsy when I had my infusions on Thursday, and I felt terribly sick afterwards. It has taken me until now to really feel like I am back to my irascible self. And I am cheered by the fact that I only have the second reconstruction to go-in March-so I will have time to actually have something resembling a life. I went out today and copied all the vestibular exercises and charts I was given at Queen Square; I will be putting them up on a wall so I can see them when I do what I am supposed to be doing-and I have spent so much time running from hospital to hospital that I haven't done as much as I've wanted.
I've lost six years; it's been six years since I first heard the term "pseudomonas", and it all went downhill from there. I've got a lot of time to make up. When I get down, I just remind myself how far I've come-I've got a long way to go, but I have also come a long way. I should never say I feel lucky-because every time I do, something else happens. I'll just think it. And I will remember that I promised myself to be kind to the brain-dead (as much as possible).
I suppose that calling the next person who crashes into me a total asswipe is out of the question?
Actually, I did make one resolution-kind of. I said the same thing I said last year: I would do my best to be kind to the brain-dead. The brain-damaged. The Brits (it's all the same, really). Plus all the people who have flooded into this country and brought their quaint customs with them: the desire to live off the taxpayers and never work a day in their lives, the absolute refusal to bathe, and, of course, the treatment of women as if we are all pieces of furniture. It is really, truly amazing. What year is this? If a man hit me I would take the sharpest tool I could find and stick it in the tool's eye. And speaking of hitting...
My resolve to be kind lasted until last Monday. I was walking up the road, minding my own business, and some douchebag came up behind me and pushed me out of the way, right into another person who was walking the other way. This jerk said "sorry, darling" - and. honestly, it just slipped out. I said, loudly, and as sarcastically as I could: "well, fuck you, darling". He turned around, and I raised my hand and raised the appropriate finger, and said "you imbecile". I thought he was going to hit me-but there were several people behind me, so he thought better of it and walked away. Someone behind me said "good for you"-of course, if the imbecile had come back, people would probably have just watched. I suppose that is "human" nature?
So there went my resolution of 2016. It's very difficult for me to accept that people (not everyone, thank goodness, but a lot) are descended from a long line of thieves, rapists, murderers and lunatics-and that just describes the "royal" family. So many others are quite obviously the product of centuries of inbreeding. No wonder the average IQ of people in this country is around 70. I'm surprised that it is that high. So, really, I have no excuse for being upset when people act like imbeciles.Eeek!!
On Tuesday I had my second throat biopsy. I was really worried; I was afraid that it would be as painful as the first one, in October, when I felt like someone had hit my throat with a flame thrower-and punched me in the face while I was sedated. All that and they had to repeat it because they didn't take enough tissue for a biopsy. Incompetent, or what?
So this time I spoke with the consultant beforehand, and asked him to give me his word that he would do the biopsy-and not allow anyone else to do it. It was the same operation-and afterwards I felt so much better. I had some swelling and soreness, but nothing like the first time they performed this. It just goes to show you how much better it is to be treated by a qualified surgeon. I think that last time they must have taken someone off the street, given him a pair of gloves and a scalpel, and told him to knock himself out. Well-at least I hope they gave him a pair of gloves!
I wasn't completely over the biopsy when I had my infusions on Thursday, and I felt terribly sick afterwards. It has taken me until now to really feel like I am back to my irascible self. And I am cheered by the fact that I only have the second reconstruction to go-in March-so I will have time to actually have something resembling a life. I went out today and copied all the vestibular exercises and charts I was given at Queen Square; I will be putting them up on a wall so I can see them when I do what I am supposed to be doing-and I have spent so much time running from hospital to hospital that I haven't done as much as I've wanted.
I've lost six years; it's been six years since I first heard the term "pseudomonas", and it all went downhill from there. I've got a lot of time to make up. When I get down, I just remind myself how far I've come-I've got a long way to go, but I have also come a long way. I should never say I feel lucky-because every time I do, something else happens. I'll just think it. And I will remember that I promised myself to be kind to the brain-dead (as much as possible).
I suppose that calling the next person who crashes into me a total asswipe is out of the question?
Saturday, 2 January 2016
And speaking of being positive in 2016
Well, here is something positive, among all the reports of people attacking others with machetes (I told you, anything on sale brings out the Neanderthal in people), and guns (yes, we have guns here, too). Twin Peaks phoned home from space to wish everyone on earth a very happy new year. And he got the correct number. The first time. What a miracle. What a wanker. And there goes another pound into the swear box. We're up to double figures now-high double figures. If I keep going like this, who needs the Bahamas? I'll be able to spend a month in New York!
Mr. Murphy rides again
Happy New Year-slightly late, but...that is because Murphy and his bloody law struck again.
I was (and am) so happy to see the back of 2015; in fact, I'm happy to see the back of the last six years, which were six of the worst years of my life. It was six years ago that I first heard the word "pseudomonas"-when I was told I had developed it. And life just got worse and worse-and worse. But, as you know, I fought very hard to get my health back, even though some things will never be the same again (my life, for example).
So I finished all my infusions, and medical stuff for the year, and on the 30th (Wednesday) I met two friends for our last meal of 2015-a vegetarian lunch, in a restaurant they visit several times each week. I swear, they must have cast iron stomachs-or perhaps I was just unlucky. On Wednesday night I started feeling really, really sick: chills, fever, sweats-I had food poisoning. Before the other symptoms kicked in, I had cramps-and enough gas to launch the Hindenburg. I thought my stomach was going to explode (I really have to stop watching reruns of the Alien movies).
Now, I was supposed to go to a small house party on New Year's Eve, and I really wanted to go. However, my stomach had other plans. Fortunately, my apartment is so small that you can get to the bathroom from any other room in less than a minute. That was really a stroke of luck.
So there I was, sprinting from the bedroom to the bathroom all day-but I had some stuff from the pharmacy for just that problem, and it turns everything in the system to concrete. Take enough and you won't have to do anything for three days. So I took several capsules, and I was feeling better when my friend came to pick me up. I had a really good time, too. We all reminisced about the year (I did my best to stay out of that conversation, I can tell you). We had really lovely food, some champagne at midnight, and I was dropped off at around 2am.
Well, I did say Murphy's Law. And I didn't say that the capsules only work for a certain period of time, when, as it always happens, what goes in must come out. All day yesterday I waited for something to come bursting out of my stomach and start running around the room (Alien again. Bad me). So, although I was laid up on New Year's Day, I just looked at it like-it's a hell of a way to end the year! And if that is the worst thing to happen to me this year, I'll be extremely happy.
I wish you all a wonderful 2016-without food poisoning, too. No more vegetarian restaurants for me!
I suppose you could call that a New Year's resolution...I haven't done those yet, since I always end up breaking them before the first week is out. I'll think about it, though.
The most I've done is to delete a lot of people from my address book. I think I'm at the stage where I don't want negative people in my life. Who needs people who constantly throw cold water on every idea, whose very presence makes me depressed, who get off by putting me down? I had that: it's called marriage.
So now, I am going to have some fun. I've spent six years in survival mode, and I have finally reached the point where I can see that there is light at the end of the tunnel-and it isn't an oncoming express train. Of course, I thought the same thing last year-but that was a false start, preparation for the real thing. It would be really helpful to be more optimistic. I'm working on it.
I was (and am) so happy to see the back of 2015; in fact, I'm happy to see the back of the last six years, which were six of the worst years of my life. It was six years ago that I first heard the word "pseudomonas"-when I was told I had developed it. And life just got worse and worse-and worse. But, as you know, I fought very hard to get my health back, even though some things will never be the same again (my life, for example).
So I finished all my infusions, and medical stuff for the year, and on the 30th (Wednesday) I met two friends for our last meal of 2015-a vegetarian lunch, in a restaurant they visit several times each week. I swear, they must have cast iron stomachs-or perhaps I was just unlucky. On Wednesday night I started feeling really, really sick: chills, fever, sweats-I had food poisoning. Before the other symptoms kicked in, I had cramps-and enough gas to launch the Hindenburg. I thought my stomach was going to explode (I really have to stop watching reruns of the Alien movies).
Now, I was supposed to go to a small house party on New Year's Eve, and I really wanted to go. However, my stomach had other plans. Fortunately, my apartment is so small that you can get to the bathroom from any other room in less than a minute. That was really a stroke of luck.
So there I was, sprinting from the bedroom to the bathroom all day-but I had some stuff from the pharmacy for just that problem, and it turns everything in the system to concrete. Take enough and you won't have to do anything for three days. So I took several capsules, and I was feeling better when my friend came to pick me up. I had a really good time, too. We all reminisced about the year (I did my best to stay out of that conversation, I can tell you). We had really lovely food, some champagne at midnight, and I was dropped off at around 2am.
Well, I did say Murphy's Law. And I didn't say that the capsules only work for a certain period of time, when, as it always happens, what goes in must come out. All day yesterday I waited for something to come bursting out of my stomach and start running around the room (Alien again. Bad me). So, although I was laid up on New Year's Day, I just looked at it like-it's a hell of a way to end the year! And if that is the worst thing to happen to me this year, I'll be extremely happy.
I wish you all a wonderful 2016-without food poisoning, too. No more vegetarian restaurants for me!
I suppose you could call that a New Year's resolution...I haven't done those yet, since I always end up breaking them before the first week is out. I'll think about it, though.
The most I've done is to delete a lot of people from my address book. I think I'm at the stage where I don't want negative people in my life. Who needs people who constantly throw cold water on every idea, whose very presence makes me depressed, who get off by putting me down? I had that: it's called marriage.
So now, I am going to have some fun. I've spent six years in survival mode, and I have finally reached the point where I can see that there is light at the end of the tunnel-and it isn't an oncoming express train. Of course, I thought the same thing last year-but that was a false start, preparation for the real thing. It would be really helpful to be more optimistic. I'm working on it.
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