Even with a seriously nasty case of jet lag, I practically dreamed of a toasted bagel. Loaded with cream cheese. Mmmm....
My friend in the northeast comes down to London whenever I take a few days off to go somewhere. Usually that somewhere is the hospital; I'm hoping that, with the last operation, those days are behind me. There isn't anything else the surgeons can't remove that isn't a vital organ...
When my friend goes away, I go up north to stay there and dog sit. It's great for both of us: she gets to mooch around London, and I get the relative peace and quiet of the countryside. After a few days, we're both ready to go back and resume life as we know it.
I've now been here for nearly a week-and I have satisfied my bagel needs (and then some).I met my friends, who came to help me celebrate my birthday, and that was pretty terrific. But-and there is a very big "but"- I got really homesick. I'm over jet lag (finally-just in time to go back to Britain), I've stuffed my face, I've enjoyed a few days of retail therapy (my suitcase will be heavy enough to give some poor baggage handler a hernia. Or perhaps an aneurism. Or both).I got to my favorite museum (the Museum of Modern Art), and that was great. I'll have to save the Guggenheim for my next trip, because I'm just about out of time.
It has been a real eye-opener.There is construction everywhere; there are people everywhere; the epidemic that has swept the UK is here, too: people walking without looking because they're busy texting, so they will just crash into you without even a "sorry". In that way, it's just like being in England.
In Britain people will happily stab you, or beat several kinds of crap out of you, or even throw sulfuric acid in your face (acid is the new means of attack). Here they just shoot you. But at least here the sentences for major crimes seem to be severe; over in the UK someone will get a life sentence (very, VERY rare indeed) and be out in eight years. Just amazing. The inequities over in England when it comes to crime are just breathtaking.
Would I come home? In a New York minute. In a millisecond. That is a yes. But it would be very difficult for me - mostly because of the immune system problem (thanks Mom and Dad), and, of course, the whole balance thing (gentamicin: the gift that keeps on giving).
That is, of course, a challenge, and I am always up for a challenge. We'll see what happens. Meanwhile, I will just keep coming over and clocking up those air miles.
Now it's time for a coffee-and no bagel, because I'm really bagelled out. In fact, it's time to brave the crowds and take a long walk, and people-watch, while trying my best not to get knocked over...
Monday, 23 October 2017
Friday, 20 October 2017
Who am I? Where am I? Hint: not in London (hooray)
I'm suffering from severe jet lag, which I've had since Monday. It's nasty-makes you feel like life isn't worth living. And it goes on, and on, and on....
I'm in New York. I flew out on Monday morning-Delta Airlines, the ones with great service who never seem to crash (fingers crossed that I haven't just jinxed myself!!).
I'm not afraid of flying. I'm afraid of crashing.
The flight to New York was full-and I was lucky to find that the person sitting next to me was about my size, so I didn't have to squash myself into a corner (like everyone does who travels with the odious Ryanair). I was also lucky that the woman sat down, said nothing, and didn't talk for nearly eight hours. Who feels like socializing for eight hours on a plane, next to a perfect stranger, when all you want to do is catch up on the sleep you didn't get the night before?
However-and there is always a however-I sat behind two Eastern Europeans, two big guys, who didn't speak English-and that would have been fine, even them going to the loo every twenty minutes would have been fine (bad guts, maybe). What wasn't fine was that they farted all the way across the Atlantic. And they stank to high heaven; it smelled like some rats crawled up their backsides and died.
The downside of flying and being stuck on a plane for any length of time is that you breathe in everyone else's air. Recycled farts. How lovely.
Apart from the farters it was a good journey. We didn't crash, nobody died, and we got to JFK right on time-although there was some turbulence on the descent and it was a bit of a bone breaking landing...
There is a new system now-no more paper customs forms, but kiosks where you have to input your data, scan your passport, and look at a camera, which takes your photo and matches it with your passport photo.How cool is that!
I was going off to catch the little shuttle bus to the hotel, and couldn't help but notice a huge police presence-police with very serious weapons. Of course, me with my big mouth and curious nature-I went up to them and asked if they were expecting trouble. They looked at me and my elbow crutch, and probably decided that I wasn't a problem-and said that they are simply protecting the public and keeping a very visible presence. I wish they would do that at Heathrow-but they would probably end up shooting themselves in the foot.
I said that jet lag makes life not worth living-ah, well, I am still on UK time, although it isn't as bad as it was on Monday and Tuesday. And Wednesday. and yesterday. Ugh-I keep waking up at 2am, and feeling like it is really five hours later. I finally gave in on Wednesday and went only for a very long walk, then came back to the hotel and had to lie down for a few hours. Wednesday was my do-nothing day. I couldn't even face going onto the computer, because my eyes just don't want to focus, and there is a lot of swearing and gnashing of teeth, I can tell you.
Anyone who really, truly finds a cure for jet lag will make a fortune. Although there is a cure: don't go anywhere. If you don't fly long distances...well, but that just sucks the fun out of life,doesn't it?
My friend came to the hotel on Monday night (after work) and brought a load of Popeyes. She likes her Popeyes-which is like KFC but without the food poisoning.
It was Popeyes fried chicken, french fries, Coke-and it was around 7pm, so it was midnight to my stomach. But I'll tell you something: I never eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, or McDonalds, or any of that fast food stuff. But this chicken was battered, deep fried (so were the fries), and reallly good. With every bite I could feel my arteries harden and my hips expand. Yum. Delicious. Probably because I only had airline food all day...
I've been stuffing my face all week. Breakfast is included, and there are bagels (I think I've satisfied all my bagel needs in four days), eggs, bacon, veggie sausages-oh, you name it and it's probably on the menu. And I'm the person who has only a banana and a cup of tea or coffee when I'm in London-but these breakfasts set me up for the whole day.
My friend (DJ) and I went out every day except Wednesday, and we shopped. And ate. And shopped. And ate. And shopped some more. It was great, but now I'm knackered. But is that stopping me from going into Manhattan today? Of course not. I'll be taking some photos at the request of a friend back in the UK, and I'll be going to the Museum of Modern Art, one of my favorite places in New York. And eating. What the heck, you only live once.
And once might just be enough. Maybe. Perhaps. I'll keep you posted, now that my eyes are working...
I'm in New York. I flew out on Monday morning-Delta Airlines, the ones with great service who never seem to crash (fingers crossed that I haven't just jinxed myself!!).
I'm not afraid of flying. I'm afraid of crashing.
The flight to New York was full-and I was lucky to find that the person sitting next to me was about my size, so I didn't have to squash myself into a corner (like everyone does who travels with the odious Ryanair). I was also lucky that the woman sat down, said nothing, and didn't talk for nearly eight hours. Who feels like socializing for eight hours on a plane, next to a perfect stranger, when all you want to do is catch up on the sleep you didn't get the night before?
However-and there is always a however-I sat behind two Eastern Europeans, two big guys, who didn't speak English-and that would have been fine, even them going to the loo every twenty minutes would have been fine (bad guts, maybe). What wasn't fine was that they farted all the way across the Atlantic. And they stank to high heaven; it smelled like some rats crawled up their backsides and died.
The downside of flying and being stuck on a plane for any length of time is that you breathe in everyone else's air. Recycled farts. How lovely.
Apart from the farters it was a good journey. We didn't crash, nobody died, and we got to JFK right on time-although there was some turbulence on the descent and it was a bit of a bone breaking landing...
There is a new system now-no more paper customs forms, but kiosks where you have to input your data, scan your passport, and look at a camera, which takes your photo and matches it with your passport photo.How cool is that!
I was going off to catch the little shuttle bus to the hotel, and couldn't help but notice a huge police presence-police with very serious weapons. Of course, me with my big mouth and curious nature-I went up to them and asked if they were expecting trouble. They looked at me and my elbow crutch, and probably decided that I wasn't a problem-and said that they are simply protecting the public and keeping a very visible presence. I wish they would do that at Heathrow-but they would probably end up shooting themselves in the foot.
I said that jet lag makes life not worth living-ah, well, I am still on UK time, although it isn't as bad as it was on Monday and Tuesday. And Wednesday. and yesterday. Ugh-I keep waking up at 2am, and feeling like it is really five hours later. I finally gave in on Wednesday and went only for a very long walk, then came back to the hotel and had to lie down for a few hours. Wednesday was my do-nothing day. I couldn't even face going onto the computer, because my eyes just don't want to focus, and there is a lot of swearing and gnashing of teeth, I can tell you.
Anyone who really, truly finds a cure for jet lag will make a fortune. Although there is a cure: don't go anywhere. If you don't fly long distances...well, but that just sucks the fun out of life,doesn't it?
My friend came to the hotel on Monday night (after work) and brought a load of Popeyes. She likes her Popeyes-which is like KFC but without the food poisoning.
It was Popeyes fried chicken, french fries, Coke-and it was around 7pm, so it was midnight to my stomach. But I'll tell you something: I never eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, or McDonalds, or any of that fast food stuff. But this chicken was battered, deep fried (so were the fries), and reallly good. With every bite I could feel my arteries harden and my hips expand. Yum. Delicious. Probably because I only had airline food all day...
I've been stuffing my face all week. Breakfast is included, and there are bagels (I think I've satisfied all my bagel needs in four days), eggs, bacon, veggie sausages-oh, you name it and it's probably on the menu. And I'm the person who has only a banana and a cup of tea or coffee when I'm in London-but these breakfasts set me up for the whole day.
My friend (DJ) and I went out every day except Wednesday, and we shopped. And ate. And shopped. And ate. And shopped some more. It was great, but now I'm knackered. But is that stopping me from going into Manhattan today? Of course not. I'll be taking some photos at the request of a friend back in the UK, and I'll be going to the Museum of Modern Art, one of my favorite places in New York. And eating. What the heck, you only live once.
And once might just be enough. Maybe. Perhaps. I'll keep you posted, now that my eyes are working...
Wednesday, 4 October 2017
Hindsight is always 20/20
Funny how we all look back and think that if only we'd known what we know now, we wouldn't have done/said/not done...etc. Wouldn't our lives have been different. That's what I've been going through for more time than I want to think about: if I'd made different choices, done things differently, my life would be so different. That is what I mean by hindsight being 20/20: perfect vision when you look at your history. If you try to go back there-not so much.
I've been struggling since this last operation five weeks ago. It was a pig to get through, I'm still badly bruised and sore all the way across my chest, and I look mutilated. Even so, I'm not in as much pain as I was after the operation, so five weeks have made a big difference. Arnica and a heating pad have also made a big difference. I'm on the mend, but really seriously pissed off.
I think that we make the decisions and choices we make with the information we have at the time. When I decided to have reconstruction-mostly because I felt horribly mutilated after the mastectomy, and I didn't want to see myself as a "breast cancer survivor"-even though that is exactly what I am-I decided that reconstruction was the way to go. What an oops-I could have saved myself the torture and pain of three operations, and I'm still-well, flat...but at the time it seemed like a good decision. Ewww....now I advise people who ask me-and a lot of people ask me-to think very hard and to examine all the facts, do their due diligence, really, really consider if more surgery is what they want. Would I do it again, knowing what I know now? Aww, hell no-my mother didn't raise an idiot.
So here I am, on the mend, and I'm not looking to have any operation of any kind-ever. Hopefully I'll be well enough to keep to that decision.
I'm back doing Tai Chi, and I can finally raise my arms (both of them), so I'm able to do most things. I enjoy it, and it's a really good way to strengthen my muscles, all of which have headed south in a very big way in the last few months. Tai Chi is very deceptive: you might think it's very slow, and peaceful-but when you are holding a squat for what feels like forever, you discover that your muscles really have to work. Great stuff.
I also started vestibular physiotherapy this week. I'll have to work very hard-extra hard-to get back to where I was before all the surgery. My physio, Chris, is great. I told her I need to be accountable to someone or I'll be too lazy to do the work. So she gave me several sheets of exercises to do at least four times every day before I see her again in six weeks. Am I a glutton for punishment, or what?
Now-if your answer is yes, I'll feel really inadequate: can you stand with one foot in front of the other, toes of one foot (wearing shoes) touching the back of the other foot, for at least one minute (no cheating)? And then change feet and do the same thing? No falling over, no bracing yourself against a table, or a wall, or your dog, or your partner...well, I need to be able to do that by Christmas. Oh, really, seriously, I do. I also need to be able to balance on one leg while standing on a cushion. For one minute. Then change legs (if I haven't fallen over before then, that is).
This is going to be one hell of a challenge. But I've always been up for a challenge, so I'll just keep going, like the Energizer bunny, until I keel over. Oh, joy-well, I did ask for this. I'll let you know how I'm doing.
I'll be in New York just before Thanksgiving. This will be the first time home in five years. The last time I was on the tripod, I was so unwell that I could hardly walk-and jet-lagged as well. I think that it was too soon for me to make the trip. But this time, five years (technically nearly six years) have passed, and I've made huge improvements, even with all the setbacks from cancer, surgeries, etc, etc.
Another challenge, this time to my balance (such as it is) while experiencing the traveller's nightmare: jet lag.
I'm up for it. I'm not someone who can sit around and moan all the time. I might stand and moan, but I won't sit and moan.
Anything can happen to anyone at any time. I'm feeling the pressure of time...so off I go to do my Tai Chi walking and try not to topple over before I get to Starbucks.
I've been struggling since this last operation five weeks ago. It was a pig to get through, I'm still badly bruised and sore all the way across my chest, and I look mutilated. Even so, I'm not in as much pain as I was after the operation, so five weeks have made a big difference. Arnica and a heating pad have also made a big difference. I'm on the mend, but really seriously pissed off.
I think that we make the decisions and choices we make with the information we have at the time. When I decided to have reconstruction-mostly because I felt horribly mutilated after the mastectomy, and I didn't want to see myself as a "breast cancer survivor"-even though that is exactly what I am-I decided that reconstruction was the way to go. What an oops-I could have saved myself the torture and pain of three operations, and I'm still-well, flat...but at the time it seemed like a good decision. Ewww....now I advise people who ask me-and a lot of people ask me-to think very hard and to examine all the facts, do their due diligence, really, really consider if more surgery is what they want. Would I do it again, knowing what I know now? Aww, hell no-my mother didn't raise an idiot.
So here I am, on the mend, and I'm not looking to have any operation of any kind-ever. Hopefully I'll be well enough to keep to that decision.
I'm back doing Tai Chi, and I can finally raise my arms (both of them), so I'm able to do most things. I enjoy it, and it's a really good way to strengthen my muscles, all of which have headed south in a very big way in the last few months. Tai Chi is very deceptive: you might think it's very slow, and peaceful-but when you are holding a squat for what feels like forever, you discover that your muscles really have to work. Great stuff.
I also started vestibular physiotherapy this week. I'll have to work very hard-extra hard-to get back to where I was before all the surgery. My physio, Chris, is great. I told her I need to be accountable to someone or I'll be too lazy to do the work. So she gave me several sheets of exercises to do at least four times every day before I see her again in six weeks. Am I a glutton for punishment, or what?
Now-if your answer is yes, I'll feel really inadequate: can you stand with one foot in front of the other, toes of one foot (wearing shoes) touching the back of the other foot, for at least one minute (no cheating)? And then change feet and do the same thing? No falling over, no bracing yourself against a table, or a wall, or your dog, or your partner...well, I need to be able to do that by Christmas. Oh, really, seriously, I do. I also need to be able to balance on one leg while standing on a cushion. For one minute. Then change legs (if I haven't fallen over before then, that is).
This is going to be one hell of a challenge. But I've always been up for a challenge, so I'll just keep going, like the Energizer bunny, until I keel over. Oh, joy-well, I did ask for this. I'll let you know how I'm doing.
I'll be in New York just before Thanksgiving. This will be the first time home in five years. The last time I was on the tripod, I was so unwell that I could hardly walk-and jet-lagged as well. I think that it was too soon for me to make the trip. But this time, five years (technically nearly six years) have passed, and I've made huge improvements, even with all the setbacks from cancer, surgeries, etc, etc.
Another challenge, this time to my balance (such as it is) while experiencing the traveller's nightmare: jet lag.
I'm up for it. I'm not someone who can sit around and moan all the time. I might stand and moan, but I won't sit and moan.
Anything can happen to anyone at any time. I'm feeling the pressure of time...so off I go to do my Tai Chi walking and try not to topple over before I get to Starbucks.
Saturday, 23 September 2017
You've heard of Deadpool; now meet Bloodpool
Four weeks yesterday I had the implants removed-and what a disaster that was!! I ended up with a hematoma the size of Brazil. From waist to shoulder, all the way around the back, down to the buttocks-and it hurt like hell, too.
The docs tried to do a needle aspiration - they removed a syringe filled with blood (that was a week after surgery)-but then the blood clots became solid, and I was told that I should be out of pain in-maybe-six months.
If I've already told you this, feel free to go make a coffee for the next few sentences. It just means that that malady I call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) has once again reached up and bitten me on the ass. I can tell you that people I know quite well suffer from this as well-as do people in their 20s and 30s-so it's no longer just a middle aged person's malady. It's everywhere-like flu. Does that make me feel a little bit smug? It shouldn't-but it does.
Last week the surgeon removed the stitches from one side. He's waiting until Monday to remove the rest. I asked him if he thinks that any earlier would make my chest fall out if I coughed. He thought that was funny. If he was in my shoes, he wouldn't think anything is funny. He even told me that the pooled blood and all the blood clots would migrate down my buttocks and stomach, and I shouldn't be worried. Seriously? I asked him what I should do when it all reaches my ankles: stand on my head? Dangle upside down until it all starts to move the other way? Huh. Idiots.
Well, here I am, four weeks later, and a lot of the bruising has subsided, although the bruising on my chest still looks like someone kicked me while I was under the anesthesia. Kicked, punched, dropped a 20 kilo weight-whatever. I must have that effect on people: they want to wait until I'm comatose and then kick the shit out of me.
A doctor I know advised me to use heat-so I've been using a heating pad every day for about the last two weeks-and, between the heating pad and the arnica (I swear by arnica-too bad I don't have any stock in the company. Another missed opportunity), I think that it's all looking a bit less black. Now it's all dark grey. How exciting is that? I really need to get out more...
I do have some interesting news, and this is about the whole needles/syringes debacle. I persisted-almost daily, because you know that when someone really, really pisses me off I just go for the jugular, no matter how long it takes. I received an apology from my GP. It wasn't a grovelling apology, but it wasn't far off. Then on Thursday I was due to go over to the surgery for my annual flu shot-some media idiots are bleating that this will be the worst flu epidemic in years (they do that every year. It frightens people, and it sells what these idiots laughingly call "newspapers").
I go because of the whole immune system/chest challenges. And I'm sitting there, waiting for the doc to see me, and who walks out of her office- my GP. Of course. WTF...and other expressions of dismay...
She came straight over to me and apologized again, said that she was very foolish, and blah blah blah. Of course, every patient advocacy group-plus the MP-were after her, so she might have done this to get the heat off (finally). She also might have been genuinely sorry that she and her team of morons screwed up so royally. So we are going to meet in a couple of weeks and sit down and just put this all behind us. Perhaps I should wear a bullet-proof vest...or maybe she should?
I'm glad I persevered, and that this whole matter is nearly at an end, and if I never hear about needles and syringes again it will be absolutely wonderful.
My friend Dee says that anything for a quiet life-at any cost-is exactly what she wants, and she just doesn't like any kind of confrontation. She runs from it. I can understand that-in some ways-and I know her for a number of years, and if she was really happy to live her life that way, I would applaud her. I know that she isn't- because she never stands up for herself. But hey, whatever floats your boat.
I seem to be in battle mode a large percentage of time, fighting for myself, or for anyone who needs (and asks for) help...and I wonder which of us is healthier, the fighter or the - not fighter. I'm not so sure I want to keep fighting all the time. It's very wearing. In this country, if you fight for anyone's rights (including your own) you're pilloried and demonized. Who needs that?
I'm telling you: I'm going to take up kick boxing...
The docs tried to do a needle aspiration - they removed a syringe filled with blood (that was a week after surgery)-but then the blood clots became solid, and I was told that I should be out of pain in-maybe-six months.
If I've already told you this, feel free to go make a coffee for the next few sentences. It just means that that malady I call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) has once again reached up and bitten me on the ass. I can tell you that people I know quite well suffer from this as well-as do people in their 20s and 30s-so it's no longer just a middle aged person's malady. It's everywhere-like flu. Does that make me feel a little bit smug? It shouldn't-but it does.
Last week the surgeon removed the stitches from one side. He's waiting until Monday to remove the rest. I asked him if he thinks that any earlier would make my chest fall out if I coughed. He thought that was funny. If he was in my shoes, he wouldn't think anything is funny. He even told me that the pooled blood and all the blood clots would migrate down my buttocks and stomach, and I shouldn't be worried. Seriously? I asked him what I should do when it all reaches my ankles: stand on my head? Dangle upside down until it all starts to move the other way? Huh. Idiots.
Well, here I am, four weeks later, and a lot of the bruising has subsided, although the bruising on my chest still looks like someone kicked me while I was under the anesthesia. Kicked, punched, dropped a 20 kilo weight-whatever. I must have that effect on people: they want to wait until I'm comatose and then kick the shit out of me.
A doctor I know advised me to use heat-so I've been using a heating pad every day for about the last two weeks-and, between the heating pad and the arnica (I swear by arnica-too bad I don't have any stock in the company. Another missed opportunity), I think that it's all looking a bit less black. Now it's all dark grey. How exciting is that? I really need to get out more...
I do have some interesting news, and this is about the whole needles/syringes debacle. I persisted-almost daily, because you know that when someone really, really pisses me off I just go for the jugular, no matter how long it takes. I received an apology from my GP. It wasn't a grovelling apology, but it wasn't far off. Then on Thursday I was due to go over to the surgery for my annual flu shot-some media idiots are bleating that this will be the worst flu epidemic in years (they do that every year. It frightens people, and it sells what these idiots laughingly call "newspapers").
I go because of the whole immune system/chest challenges. And I'm sitting there, waiting for the doc to see me, and who walks out of her office- my GP. Of course. WTF...and other expressions of dismay...
She came straight over to me and apologized again, said that she was very foolish, and blah blah blah. Of course, every patient advocacy group-plus the MP-were after her, so she might have done this to get the heat off (finally). She also might have been genuinely sorry that she and her team of morons screwed up so royally. So we are going to meet in a couple of weeks and sit down and just put this all behind us. Perhaps I should wear a bullet-proof vest...or maybe she should?
I'm glad I persevered, and that this whole matter is nearly at an end, and if I never hear about needles and syringes again it will be absolutely wonderful.
My friend Dee says that anything for a quiet life-at any cost-is exactly what she wants, and she just doesn't like any kind of confrontation. She runs from it. I can understand that-in some ways-and I know her for a number of years, and if she was really happy to live her life that way, I would applaud her. I know that she isn't- because she never stands up for herself. But hey, whatever floats your boat.
I seem to be in battle mode a large percentage of time, fighting for myself, or for anyone who needs (and asks for) help...and I wonder which of us is healthier, the fighter or the - not fighter. I'm not so sure I want to keep fighting all the time. It's very wearing. In this country, if you fight for anyone's rights (including your own) you're pilloried and demonized. Who needs that?
I'm telling you: I'm going to take up kick boxing...
Saturday, 2 September 2017
Tits Ahoy: Titless in London
I was in full battle dress the last time I wrote-I fight for my principles. But I had to delay the battle (which I'll tell you about later) to go into the hospital last Friday (the 25th) to have the implants removed-after a six month wait.
Talk about pain; one implant was ruptured. So my body clearly doesn't like those things, and now I'm flat as a pancake again. But I would rather be flat and go through a week and a bit of agonizing pain (post-op) than all the pain I had before. It turns out-according to the surgeon-that a high percentage of women have the implants removed because the body rejects them. Thanks for telling me now-a bit late, don't you think? And, there is a shelf life for implants. Even when they're successful, they need replacing every 7-10 years. Some lucky women are okay with them for longer than that, but there are so many side effects that now I encourage people to think very carefully about whether or not it is worth the aggravation.
I was discharged on Wednesday afternoon, and have I ever been suffering since then! The after effects of pain killers, intravenous antibiotics, and hospital food that I'm sure started out as toxic waste-all these things took their toll. So, since I got back I have been pretty inert-and what balance I have paid the price. If I don't walk daily, I start to revert to staggering. Interesting.
Yesterday I forced myself to eat, and I managed to keep a bit down, but that was a little difficult. I also walked for about 45 minutes; I'm someone who never does things by halves, so of course I overdid it, and got back and was knackered. But something about movement, action and refusing to quit has made things begin to improve. That, plus it's been a week since surgery, mean that I'm in less pain. But I'm also black from waist to shoulder, so that's really unpleasant. For the first five or six days I couldn't raise my arms. That was a little disconcerting, I can tell you. There's so much really bad bruising that I said to the surgeon that I must have offended someone and they waited until I was unconscious to kick me in the chest. I made him laugh, but I did wonder...
But now that I'm slowly on the mend from that ordeal, I have to tell you about this battle-it is so incredible that I tell friends and family and they look at me, astonished, as if to say: can that be real? It can. It is.
I might have mentioned that my GP had been giving me needles and syringes every month and a half or so, needed for my nebulizer. Now, I've had this nebulizer for more than seven years, and they began trialling it then as an alternative to the big clunking one that you have to clear the room of people, pets, goldfish, before you can actually use it, because a lot of the antibiotic goes straight into the room. So you have to also open the window and shut the door. With this new one, you don't need to do that. It is the size of a pack of cards, very compact, and a special formulation of the antibiotic is used,which must be drawn up (hence the needles and syringes), then injected into the vial of antibiotic, mixed well, and placed into the nebulizer. The entire process takes less than five minutes-plus the two or three minutes it takes to rinse the bits of the machine. And then Bob's your uncle. Done and dusted (no, I still don't know who Bob is and why he's your uncle. But nobody else does, either). The Ineb is the Rolls Royce of nebulizers-more than 90 percent of antibiotic is inhaled-less than half is inhaled using the traditional nebulizer. So why on earth would I go back to using the old one?
In July, Margaret (my GP) decided that the needles and syringes are "coming out of the partners' pockets"-and she was going to stop giving them to me, which she had been doing for many years out of the "kindness of her heart". That was her reasoning: it's coming out of the partners' pockets. When the NHS gave all the funding directly to the GPs and told them to manage the funds themselves (funds that are public funds), it was inevitable that some unscrupulous doctors would get greedy; lining their own pockets and stuffing their own bank balances were more important than their patients' health and wellbeing. Again, a matter of principle for me.
There are four partners and eleven paid doctors-and the practice is paid a certain amount per patient (I don't know how much it is now, but six years ago it was £150 per patient. You do the math). The practice is coining it in-but they can't afford £10 or £12 every month and a half? Who are they kidding?
To add insult to injury, Margaret didn't have the guts to come out and tell me herself. She had a very nasty receptionist come out and slam two part boxes on the counter and tell me that these are the last needles and syringes that I'm going to get. I asked why; she snapped that Margaret said that these objects-necessary equipment to nebulize, which is necessary for my survival-are coming out of the partners' pockets. When I asked what I was supposed to do, she snapped again: go and buy them yourself. Then she walked away. I asked before she left to speak to Margaret, and she told me that Margaret was "busy".
So that was the beginning of a fight. I checked with the pharmacy, and was told that both boxes would cost me £25 per month-and the person who prescribes the antibiotic is obliged to provide the equipment to use that antibiotic. So into action I went-in a big way.
I got onto the Great God Google, and I found a patients' helpline. I rang them and got the name of a patients' advocacy group called Healthwatch. I contacted the Haringey CCG-clinical commissioning group-who allegedly oversee the medical practices in the borough. I rang a lawyer and asked if it was legal for her to do this. I was told that if these objects are not in the formulary, they can't be prescribed, but what she did - and the way she did it- was unethical, unprofessional, and immoral. The lawyer said that the whole thing was disgusting.
I didn't stop there. I called NHS England, and was told that, since I complained to the practice (even though it was by phone and not in writing), they couldn't help me, because new legislation dictated that if a patient complains to a doctor that patient can't make a complaint to the NHS. What a load of bollocks.
I then went to the Ombudsman (you can tell I was very busy. That's what happens when you piss me off). And they were sympathetic, thought her behavior and attitude were a total disgrace-but said that if I could get her to put in writing (an email would do nicely) that the reason she decided to stop the provision of the equipment I need to use the antibiotics that she prescribed was that it was "coming out of the partners' pockets", they could take action on my behalf. So I'm trying to get her to do that; she promised that she would, and I will keep on at her until she keeps her promise.
This is a matter of disgraceful, disgusting, unprofessional and downright petty behavior on the part of a GP who should know better. She even went to my team at the hospital, would you believe? And they told me last week that they would provide the needles and syringes, even though it isn't their obligation to do so. They said that I'm their patient, and my safety, health and well-being are their priority. They would rather give me the equipment I need than to see me go without. And their comment about Margaret is that she is a disgrace. There goes her reputation-as if she cares. She'd rather sit in her office and count her money.
Am I stopping there? Hell, no. I'm getting that letter if I have to go there and sit and wait for it. Then I'm going to the Ombudsman, and we'll see a few sparks fly, because I'm also going to my local MP. Margaret will love a letter with a Parliament letterhead. Then I'm going to the media. And then, when I've made a huge deal and stirred the shit as much as I can, I'm changing doctors.
It isn't about a relatively small sum of money. It's about the lack of ethics and integrity, it's about the cowardly and unpleasant way it was done. It's a matter of principle, and as I said, I fight for a principle-even if I fight for other people, it's the principle.
And that's what happens when you really, really piss me off.
Talk about pain; one implant was ruptured. So my body clearly doesn't like those things, and now I'm flat as a pancake again. But I would rather be flat and go through a week and a bit of agonizing pain (post-op) than all the pain I had before. It turns out-according to the surgeon-that a high percentage of women have the implants removed because the body rejects them. Thanks for telling me now-a bit late, don't you think? And, there is a shelf life for implants. Even when they're successful, they need replacing every 7-10 years. Some lucky women are okay with them for longer than that, but there are so many side effects that now I encourage people to think very carefully about whether or not it is worth the aggravation.
I was discharged on Wednesday afternoon, and have I ever been suffering since then! The after effects of pain killers, intravenous antibiotics, and hospital food that I'm sure started out as toxic waste-all these things took their toll. So, since I got back I have been pretty inert-and what balance I have paid the price. If I don't walk daily, I start to revert to staggering. Interesting.
Yesterday I forced myself to eat, and I managed to keep a bit down, but that was a little difficult. I also walked for about 45 minutes; I'm someone who never does things by halves, so of course I overdid it, and got back and was knackered. But something about movement, action and refusing to quit has made things begin to improve. That, plus it's been a week since surgery, mean that I'm in less pain. But I'm also black from waist to shoulder, so that's really unpleasant. For the first five or six days I couldn't raise my arms. That was a little disconcerting, I can tell you. There's so much really bad bruising that I said to the surgeon that I must have offended someone and they waited until I was unconscious to kick me in the chest. I made him laugh, but I did wonder...
But now that I'm slowly on the mend from that ordeal, I have to tell you about this battle-it is so incredible that I tell friends and family and they look at me, astonished, as if to say: can that be real? It can. It is.
I might have mentioned that my GP had been giving me needles and syringes every month and a half or so, needed for my nebulizer. Now, I've had this nebulizer for more than seven years, and they began trialling it then as an alternative to the big clunking one that you have to clear the room of people, pets, goldfish, before you can actually use it, because a lot of the antibiotic goes straight into the room. So you have to also open the window and shut the door. With this new one, you don't need to do that. It is the size of a pack of cards, very compact, and a special formulation of the antibiotic is used,which must be drawn up (hence the needles and syringes), then injected into the vial of antibiotic, mixed well, and placed into the nebulizer. The entire process takes less than five minutes-plus the two or three minutes it takes to rinse the bits of the machine. And then Bob's your uncle. Done and dusted (no, I still don't know who Bob is and why he's your uncle. But nobody else does, either). The Ineb is the Rolls Royce of nebulizers-more than 90 percent of antibiotic is inhaled-less than half is inhaled using the traditional nebulizer. So why on earth would I go back to using the old one?
In July, Margaret (my GP) decided that the needles and syringes are "coming out of the partners' pockets"-and she was going to stop giving them to me, which she had been doing for many years out of the "kindness of her heart". That was her reasoning: it's coming out of the partners' pockets. When the NHS gave all the funding directly to the GPs and told them to manage the funds themselves (funds that are public funds), it was inevitable that some unscrupulous doctors would get greedy; lining their own pockets and stuffing their own bank balances were more important than their patients' health and wellbeing. Again, a matter of principle for me.
There are four partners and eleven paid doctors-and the practice is paid a certain amount per patient (I don't know how much it is now, but six years ago it was £150 per patient. You do the math). The practice is coining it in-but they can't afford £10 or £12 every month and a half? Who are they kidding?
To add insult to injury, Margaret didn't have the guts to come out and tell me herself. She had a very nasty receptionist come out and slam two part boxes on the counter and tell me that these are the last needles and syringes that I'm going to get. I asked why; she snapped that Margaret said that these objects-necessary equipment to nebulize, which is necessary for my survival-are coming out of the partners' pockets. When I asked what I was supposed to do, she snapped again: go and buy them yourself. Then she walked away. I asked before she left to speak to Margaret, and she told me that Margaret was "busy".
So that was the beginning of a fight. I checked with the pharmacy, and was told that both boxes would cost me £25 per month-and the person who prescribes the antibiotic is obliged to provide the equipment to use that antibiotic. So into action I went-in a big way.
I got onto the Great God Google, and I found a patients' helpline. I rang them and got the name of a patients' advocacy group called Healthwatch. I contacted the Haringey CCG-clinical commissioning group-who allegedly oversee the medical practices in the borough. I rang a lawyer and asked if it was legal for her to do this. I was told that if these objects are not in the formulary, they can't be prescribed, but what she did - and the way she did it- was unethical, unprofessional, and immoral. The lawyer said that the whole thing was disgusting.
I didn't stop there. I called NHS England, and was told that, since I complained to the practice (even though it was by phone and not in writing), they couldn't help me, because new legislation dictated that if a patient complains to a doctor that patient can't make a complaint to the NHS. What a load of bollocks.
I then went to the Ombudsman (you can tell I was very busy. That's what happens when you piss me off). And they were sympathetic, thought her behavior and attitude were a total disgrace-but said that if I could get her to put in writing (an email would do nicely) that the reason she decided to stop the provision of the equipment I need to use the antibiotics that she prescribed was that it was "coming out of the partners' pockets", they could take action on my behalf. So I'm trying to get her to do that; she promised that she would, and I will keep on at her until she keeps her promise.
This is a matter of disgraceful, disgusting, unprofessional and downright petty behavior on the part of a GP who should know better. She even went to my team at the hospital, would you believe? And they told me last week that they would provide the needles and syringes, even though it isn't their obligation to do so. They said that I'm their patient, and my safety, health and well-being are their priority. They would rather give me the equipment I need than to see me go without. And their comment about Margaret is that she is a disgrace. There goes her reputation-as if she cares. She'd rather sit in her office and count her money.
Am I stopping there? Hell, no. I'm getting that letter if I have to go there and sit and wait for it. Then I'm going to the Ombudsman, and we'll see a few sparks fly, because I'm also going to my local MP. Margaret will love a letter with a Parliament letterhead. Then I'm going to the media. And then, when I've made a huge deal and stirred the shit as much as I can, I'm changing doctors.
It isn't about a relatively small sum of money. It's about the lack of ethics and integrity, it's about the cowardly and unpleasant way it was done. It's a matter of principle, and as I said, I fight for a principle-even if I fight for other people, it's the principle.
And that's what happens when you really, really piss me off.
Thursday, 24 August 2017
Rootin' Tootin' Freakin' Luton
I went to Ireland for a few days. After the last time I blogged, I found myself taking Ryanair from Luton to Dublin. Here is a bit of advice: never, EVER, fly Ryanair. They are the world's worse, shittiest airline.
Ryanair prides itself on being very cheap. It is: very, very cheap, so cheap that you begin to wonder if you are going to have to walk to Ireland. And Luton Airport, now known as "London Luton Airport", is about 35 miles out of London-or thereabouts. Most of the cheapo flights depart from Luton, which is now being renovated. So you end up walking around a half hour to the gate, then walk to outside steps to the plane (remember those? Yeah, I didn't think so), up about a dozen steps, and if you're carrying a crutch in one hand and a case in the other, it's just about impossible to get up the steps without ending up falling ass over tit onto the person behind you. Did anyone help? Seriously? At one point I had to turn around and snap at someone, saying that if they're in such a bloody rush they could help me. They didn't. Welcome to Britain.
Ryanair won't give you a glass of water, either. They say they don't have any-but will charge you for a bottle of water. They'll also charge you for a reserved seat (good thing, because the plane is very old, and has a central aisle with three seats on each side, and the seats don't recline. Obviously. That would be the mark of a quality airline). They charge for everything; soon they'll be charging to use the restroom. And maybe to breathe the air. It was horrible-and I've even left stuff out!
Now Luton-they're renovating, and moving runways around, and trying to tart up the airport. But no matter how hard they try to tart the place up, it is-and will always be-a shithole. Because the flights leave at some ungodly hour-like 6am-and you have to be there for 4am- you'd think it wouldn't be all that crowded at that hour of the day. But it was like being in the middle of a stampede. Hundreds of people of varying ages and sizes swarmed on the place like a plague of locusts-and I was doing my best to stay upright. What a challenge.
The plane arrived late, the crew were left standing around waiting for the plane to arrive, and when it did, someone walked around it, checking for-what, exactly? To make sure the engines weren't going to drop out? I think that Ryanair buys old planes, reconditions them, and keeps them together with super glue and sticky tape. I had visions of us dropping out of the sky at any moment.
The flights both to and from Dublin made me want to never fly Ryanair again-and never fly out of poxy Luton, the shithole of England. I'd rather walk. There was a point where I thought we all might have to walk.
But I enjoyed Ireland-once I got there. My friend has a lovely house outside Kilkenny, and we spent a few days just hanging out, walking around Kilkenny, and generally doing very little. I needed the rest, frankly; I finally have a surgery date, after six months of waiting for these leaking implants to be removed.
The surgery is tomorrow. Ewww....I'm really apprehensive, given the history of things gone wrong. Thanks to the NHS for nearly killing me; will they succeed this time? I must remember that the oncologist knows what he's doing, and he isn't like the three cripplers (Hilary Longhurst, Sofia Grigoriadou, Phil not-so-Bright), so I think this is just a knee jerk fear reaction. We'll see.
At least I won't be in a place where I can fight with anyone. I'll probably be too busy throwing up and asking for morphine.
I'll let you know when I get back on Monday. My friend is staying with me, since I probably won't be able to lift my arms for a few days. What a way to ruin a bank holiday weekend!
Ryanair prides itself on being very cheap. It is: very, very cheap, so cheap that you begin to wonder if you are going to have to walk to Ireland. And Luton Airport, now known as "London Luton Airport", is about 35 miles out of London-or thereabouts. Most of the cheapo flights depart from Luton, which is now being renovated. So you end up walking around a half hour to the gate, then walk to outside steps to the plane (remember those? Yeah, I didn't think so), up about a dozen steps, and if you're carrying a crutch in one hand and a case in the other, it's just about impossible to get up the steps without ending up falling ass over tit onto the person behind you. Did anyone help? Seriously? At one point I had to turn around and snap at someone, saying that if they're in such a bloody rush they could help me. They didn't. Welcome to Britain.
Ryanair won't give you a glass of water, either. They say they don't have any-but will charge you for a bottle of water. They'll also charge you for a reserved seat (good thing, because the plane is very old, and has a central aisle with three seats on each side, and the seats don't recline. Obviously. That would be the mark of a quality airline). They charge for everything; soon they'll be charging to use the restroom. And maybe to breathe the air. It was horrible-and I've even left stuff out!
Now Luton-they're renovating, and moving runways around, and trying to tart up the airport. But no matter how hard they try to tart the place up, it is-and will always be-a shithole. Because the flights leave at some ungodly hour-like 6am-and you have to be there for 4am- you'd think it wouldn't be all that crowded at that hour of the day. But it was like being in the middle of a stampede. Hundreds of people of varying ages and sizes swarmed on the place like a plague of locusts-and I was doing my best to stay upright. What a challenge.
The plane arrived late, the crew were left standing around waiting for the plane to arrive, and when it did, someone walked around it, checking for-what, exactly? To make sure the engines weren't going to drop out? I think that Ryanair buys old planes, reconditions them, and keeps them together with super glue and sticky tape. I had visions of us dropping out of the sky at any moment.
The flights both to and from Dublin made me want to never fly Ryanair again-and never fly out of poxy Luton, the shithole of England. I'd rather walk. There was a point where I thought we all might have to walk.
But I enjoyed Ireland-once I got there. My friend has a lovely house outside Kilkenny, and we spent a few days just hanging out, walking around Kilkenny, and generally doing very little. I needed the rest, frankly; I finally have a surgery date, after six months of waiting for these leaking implants to be removed.
The surgery is tomorrow. Ewww....I'm really apprehensive, given the history of things gone wrong. Thanks to the NHS for nearly killing me; will they succeed this time? I must remember that the oncologist knows what he's doing, and he isn't like the three cripplers (Hilary Longhurst, Sofia Grigoriadou, Phil not-so-Bright), so I think this is just a knee jerk fear reaction. We'll see.
At least I won't be in a place where I can fight with anyone. I'll probably be too busy throwing up and asking for morphine.
I'll let you know when I get back on Monday. My friend is staying with me, since I probably won't be able to lift my arms for a few days. What a way to ruin a bank holiday weekend!
Wednesday, 9 August 2017
Spontaneous Combustion and the Organ Grinder's Monkey
Did you ever have a day where you got so irritated at people-just about all people-that you wanted to turn around and punch them in the face? Yes, I've had six weeks like that. And it was so long since I posted that I found it difficult to get back in the saddle.
I'm back in the saddle. And can I ever understand why some people just lose it and turn around and beat the crap out of the people who seriously piss them off. Been there, done that. Sadly, however, I'm not a hitter. I would probably lift my arm to hit someone and fall over. Oh, well...it's the thought that counts.
I had a tough time with the heat, the humidity, the rank air... extremes of heat give me migraines. I don't get them from the usual culprits: red wine, chocolate, sex...(just joking about the last one. It's been so long since I had any, I forgot who gets tied up).
I managed to do all the hospital stuff; if it was necessary, I did it. It worked out, though, because my physiotherapist was so pleased with my progress (or maybe she just got fed up with my sweating all over her floor), that she discharged me. I start more physio with the vestibular people, and that will be hard going-but the thought of being challenged really makes me happy.
That doesn't quite bring you up to speed, although there were times when it was so hot that if I'd spontaneously combusted I probably would have been cooler. I would have been less embarrassed, too-because I left a sweat trail. If you wanted to find me, all you needed to do was follow the trail. Ewww...not very sexy, sweating everywhere, I can tell you.
Three weeks ago the fertilizer hit the fan with my neighbor upstairs-Abdul Asswipe, the psychopath who drills in the middle of the night. He has the nasty habit of leaving puddles of interesting biological matter outside my door-in short, he pees. He clearly comes from a country that doesn't have toilets. Or he's just a pig. So I lost it. I rang the landlord to complain, and I was shunted from department to department and put on hold. After nearly two hours of this - and I was born without the patience gene, so you can imagine how I was ready to go bitch slap someone - I hung up-and I realized that I have been telling you for years how you should ignore the monkey and find the organ grinder if you want something done. Blech-the world is full of monkeys who fancy themselves as organ grinders. So when you see a monkey, pat him on the head, kick him in the balls, and go find the organ grinder.You'll do a lot of ball kicking-but if you just don't give up, you will find them.
I rang the council, since they áre my landlords (for the time being), and I asked for the name and extensión of the CEO. The chief executive officer has to be the organ grinder- and the switchboard operator was great. She took pity on me, hearing the frustration in my voice- put me on hold, and came back and said that she spoke to this guy Chris's assistant, who wanted me to put everything in an email. That is exactly what I did. Of course, Chris didn't get back to me. After all, he is the CEO; he could be the CEO of a public toilet, but the title is enough to give him delusions of grandeur.
This was on Friday; on Wednesday I received a phone call from the antisocial behaviour team. They wanted to know what happened, since I also put in the email how useless they were in 2012, when they had me jumping through hoops.
An hour later-an hour later-the housing director phoned me. Then he rang me back half an hour later, to tell me that he was coming on Friday to talk to Abdul and sort him out.
And that is exactly what happened. As you can imagine, the CEO probably delegated the problem to some minion somewhere, and told the minion to sort it, because he never wanted to hear from me again.
Like I care? Do I care? Hell, no. Find the organ grinder. Piss him off. You aren't in this life to make everyone like you; you want results.
There's more drama from the past few weeks, but I'll save it for next time-or this post will be the length of War and Peace.
Next time-and not six weeks from now, either. Life is getting more and more interesting. And I think I need to take up a hobby that is more in line with my personality. Maybe-kickboxing...
I'm back in the saddle. And can I ever understand why some people just lose it and turn around and beat the crap out of the people who seriously piss them off. Been there, done that. Sadly, however, I'm not a hitter. I would probably lift my arm to hit someone and fall over. Oh, well...it's the thought that counts.
I had a tough time with the heat, the humidity, the rank air... extremes of heat give me migraines. I don't get them from the usual culprits: red wine, chocolate, sex...(just joking about the last one. It's been so long since I had any, I forgot who gets tied up).
I managed to do all the hospital stuff; if it was necessary, I did it. It worked out, though, because my physiotherapist was so pleased with my progress (or maybe she just got fed up with my sweating all over her floor), that she discharged me. I start more physio with the vestibular people, and that will be hard going-but the thought of being challenged really makes me happy.
That doesn't quite bring you up to speed, although there were times when it was so hot that if I'd spontaneously combusted I probably would have been cooler. I would have been less embarrassed, too-because I left a sweat trail. If you wanted to find me, all you needed to do was follow the trail. Ewww...not very sexy, sweating everywhere, I can tell you.
Three weeks ago the fertilizer hit the fan with my neighbor upstairs-Abdul Asswipe, the psychopath who drills in the middle of the night. He has the nasty habit of leaving puddles of interesting biological matter outside my door-in short, he pees. He clearly comes from a country that doesn't have toilets. Or he's just a pig. So I lost it. I rang the landlord to complain, and I was shunted from department to department and put on hold. After nearly two hours of this - and I was born without the patience gene, so you can imagine how I was ready to go bitch slap someone - I hung up-and I realized that I have been telling you for years how you should ignore the monkey and find the organ grinder if you want something done. Blech-the world is full of monkeys who fancy themselves as organ grinders. So when you see a monkey, pat him on the head, kick him in the balls, and go find the organ grinder.You'll do a lot of ball kicking-but if you just don't give up, you will find them.
I rang the council, since they áre my landlords (for the time being), and I asked for the name and extensión of the CEO. The chief executive officer has to be the organ grinder- and the switchboard operator was great. She took pity on me, hearing the frustration in my voice- put me on hold, and came back and said that she spoke to this guy Chris's assistant, who wanted me to put everything in an email. That is exactly what I did. Of course, Chris didn't get back to me. After all, he is the CEO; he could be the CEO of a public toilet, but the title is enough to give him delusions of grandeur.
This was on Friday; on Wednesday I received a phone call from the antisocial behaviour team. They wanted to know what happened, since I also put in the email how useless they were in 2012, when they had me jumping through hoops.
An hour later-an hour later-the housing director phoned me. Then he rang me back half an hour later, to tell me that he was coming on Friday to talk to Abdul and sort him out.
And that is exactly what happened. As you can imagine, the CEO probably delegated the problem to some minion somewhere, and told the minion to sort it, because he never wanted to hear from me again.
Like I care? Do I care? Hell, no. Find the organ grinder. Piss him off. You aren't in this life to make everyone like you; you want results.
There's more drama from the past few weeks, but I'll save it for next time-or this post will be the length of War and Peace.
Next time-and not six weeks from now, either. Life is getting more and more interesting. And I think I need to take up a hobby that is more in line with my personality. Maybe-kickboxing...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)