Cosmic Justice: Matt Buckland has been sacked

Did I realize that it's been so long since I last posted? Well-no, I didn't. August has been a year of constant treatment for BPPV, so it's been difficult to sit in front of a computer. It's been difficult to sit anywhere. Period.

I told you about Matt Buckland-aka Fucky Bucky, the petulant, bullying, nasty, not very competent immunology consultant at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. This is the evil prat who discharged me from the hospital the week before my cancer surgery-deliberately, maliciously, gleefully, who thought that I would now be up shit's creek-and all because I stood up to him and told him not to abuse me. Surprise for Bucky: I immediately got into the immunology clinic at the Royal Free, where the team and the lead immunologist are about 1000 percent better, and I haven't been on the ward with constant chest infections-like I was at the London.

Well-I decimated Bucky Buckland and the three cripplers: Hilary Longhurst, who has now moved on to the Broomfield Hospital and is charging people privately (instead of overcharging the NHS) to cripple or kill (or both) their nearest and dearest. Sofia Grigoriadou, the ferret-faced incompetent who was in charge when I said "no gentamicin" and she chose to ignore me-and never once came to the ward in the two months I was there, unable to stand up, walk, or move-and is now lead immunology clinician and enjoying crippling and killing patients at the Royal London (they swapped Longhurst for the ferret), and, of course, Phil (not very) Bright, who has now moved to Bristol Southmead Hospital, or one of them (so I've been told by one of the nurses), where he is creating the same destruction and incompetence he enjoyed creating when he was at the Royal London.

Bucky went to the Royal London lawyers about the blog; he got nowhere. Then he tried to get me thrown off Blogger-they emailed me, and I emailed them back, told them everything, and that was the end of the bellicose Buckland's efforts. He even contacted You Tube- but so did I. That was amusing-and his efforts failed spectacularly.

Well-Bucky (who is a ringer for the Disney character "Goofy", just in case you ever run into him) left the London, presumably because he was so humiliated by the blog, and everyone at Bart's and the London knew the story. Where did he go? The Royal Free. He complained to my doctor-who is the clinical lead-about the blog, and tried to get me discharged from the Free. My doc called me in for a special consultation and told me that Bucky was working at the Free, and he told her about the blog.

I naturally said that I have nothing bad to say about anyone at the Royal Free, but I reserve the right to give Bucky the royal pasting that he deserves. She said that she would prefer it if I wouldn't mention any names (which is why I now give everyone so many different names, I forget which one I gave to whoever) Bucky gets the mention he deserves.

And now he has been sacked. Apparently, patients were complaining, his work and attitude were substandard, and he didn't like taking orders from my doc, who is more experienced and a better immunologist than Bucky, Longhurst, (no so) Bright, and ferret-faced Grigoriadou put together. She finally saw the light a few weeks ago-and sacked him.

Now that's what I call what goes around comes around: Cosmic Justice rules again!

Every August I have a bad month (emotionally). I looked back last month (always a mistake), and thought that it is now nine years since the cripplers ruined my life-and very nearly killed me. Was I compensated? Of course not: Barts Trust is famous for misdiagnosing, crippling, killing patients but never compensating them, never even issuing an apology (mind you, I would love to tell them where they can shove their apology).

But- I've reached the point where my hatred of the cripplers (and Bucky) has eased; I used it to recover more than anyone ever thought I could (or would). I still get to August and it all comes back, only not as seriously.

I remember what the other patient told me (I think I told you in the last post) about there being some PTSD, due to all the trauma nine years ago. Well-perhaps there is an element of PTSD. Or-perhaps I'm just really, really vindictive.

I think that patients who have been crippled by incompetent, vicious, uncaring doctors like the cripplers and Bucky should all get together and form a support group. There would be hundreds of us-possibly thousands of us!

Then we should get some experienced people to go to find these "doctors" and kick the shit out of them. Any time anyone wants to go to the Royal London in Whitechapel, or the Broomfield (or wherever Longhurst is these days), or Bristol (to find Phil not so Bright), and beat the living crap out of them-and ensure that they're unable to practice what they laughingly call "medicine", let me know.

I'll take you to lunch.

PTSD, Professor Google, and me

I wonder if anyone was ever electrocuted by sweating all over their computer...sounds like an interesting question, but one that doesn't seem to have a definitive answer. Hmmm...

It's been that kind of week: severe heat (severe as in over 100 degrees Fahrenheit on one day, over 90 on several others), and, of course, no air conditioning. I would even dare to venture outside-and think that when I turned crispy, just turn me over and fry the other side. And so many people were loving just getting their kit off, hanging out and turning beet red. There were warnings about being outside between 11am and 3pm- but I guess a lot of people don't really mind setting themselves up for heat stroke. Me, I'm out in the sun for five minutes without being covered up and I turn the color of beetroot and then peel, and I'm back to my natural color: I look like I'm ready for embalming. So much for a healthy (or unhealthy) tan.

I was in clinic on the hottest day of recent history-last week-and I met another patient I only see annually. Jo usually comes on other days, and not as regularly as I do, so it was good to catch up. It was good until she told me about her nephew, who was given the wrong medication while in hospital and ended up with severe brain damage. Except for the "severe brain damage", this was a familiar story. No apology from the hospital, only feeble excuses (another familiar story). The family wanted to sue, but were told that the hospital wouldn't accept liability and would mess them around until they were bankrupt. Another familiar story!

Jo knew about the whole gentamicin disaster-same hospital, too (no surprises there), and she was asking me whether I was able to let the whole matter go. After all, it has now been (almost exactly) nine years of hell. We had a long chat-infusions take four hours-so we had lots of time to compare notes. And Jo, whose husband works with PTSD patients, suggested that I had that from the time the hospital nearly killed me, still have it, and should find someone who specializes in the disorder.

This is really important, because I always associated PTSD with the military, or police, or victims of terrorism...you know what I mean, people who are severely traumatized by things that happen to them. I never associated it with being nearly killed (and essentially rendered disabled) by hospital incompetence. No, Jo said, that is a misconception; severe trauma is severe trauma.

Who knew? I've had to cope (for better or worse-usually worse) by myself for nine years. So I promised Jo that I would look into it. And I haven't-yet-because I still don't think of myself as someone who is brave, bearing up-what I went through isn't in the same category as the categories I mentioned. It was an interesting theory of Jo's, though.

So that brings me up to the present. And clearing out the storage units, something that I have two weeks to do-heat or no heat, I have to do it. So this is where I step up and get ruthless.

I thought a lot about what Jo was saying-trying to be helpful, which I always appreciate- and I remembered a quote I read years ago. Confucius, maybe? Or Epictetus? Doesn't really matter, since they're both dead. But whoever it was said that one should never seek revenge; seeking revenge is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

Obviously, they weren't from Essex. Or anywhere in this country, for that matter.

After Carter the Musical Farter

There is life after Carter-only things were a little unexpected, to say the least!
I thought that, after the absolutely horrible 2018, that this year would be better-or, at least, benign. Nope-no such luck.

I started to have back pain-and anyone who suffers from back pain knows what a joy that isn't. I thought about the symptoms, and didn't even need to consult Professor Google to work out that I might have a kidney infection. The usual symptoms-which, of course, I ignored, since I'm really fed up with being a professional patient. But-kidneys are kidneys, backs are backs, and I went to the doc's a few days after I last entertained you with tales of Carter. Sure enough: nine hours in the hospital Ambulatory Care Center (if you can walk in, you will spend so much time there, you'll start to take root), some idiot tapping my vein twice (someone who was so "experienced" they couldn't find a vein if it was the size of the M1 motorway), and they put me on Cephalexin, the go to antibiotic for kidney infections.

I sat in the waiting area and watched people come and go, and although I explained my dilemma about having no immune system (from birth, I had to explain, so the numpties wouldn't panic), I sat. And sat. And sat. I was getting so wound up that I decided to take my mind off people coughing and sneezing, and there was no tea, coffee or water-and I couldn't get up and get any, because I was told that I would be moved to the end of the list. I thought of limericks.

I always forget the punchline of jokes-and there's nothing as irritating as someone telling a funny joke and forgetting the punchline just at the crucial moment. Limericks-well, I only know a few. My ex knew dozens-possibly hundreds. His school was one of those where the motto was "never leave your friends behind". Or maybe that was "never leave your friend's behind", I always suspected that. Eton and Harrow are the schools that are most suspicious in that area. Ex used to say that if you dropped a pencil, you just didn't bend over and pick it up. You kicked it against the wall -if you could-and then stood with your back against the wall to bend very quickly to get your pencil. It seems that bending over when you're at a boys' school is pretty lethal. He also used to say that, when the boys were (and are, nothing has changed. Allegedly) experimenting with limericks, they also were experimenting with each other. Hmmm....that explains a lot.

So I thought of a few that might amuse you, if you liked Carter. Obviously, I had nothing else to do except drink tons of water and take tablets. So, for your amusement:

A theological student from Kings
Once dreamt of heavenly things
But his only desire
Was a boy in the choir
With an ass like a jelly on springs

I like this one, so I must be weird:

There once was a hooker called Alice
Who used dynamite sticks for a phallus
They found her vagina
in South Carolina
And bits of her tits fell on Dallas

And one of my all time favorites:

There was a young girl from Madras
Who had an adorable ass
Not rounded and pink
As you probably think
It was grey, had long ears and ate grass

And my personal favorite, the first I heard when I was a limerick virgin:

There was a young fellow from Leeds
Who swallowed a packet of seeds
In less than an hour
His ass was aflower
And his balls were all covered in weeds

So there you are: how I spend my time when I have a kidney infection. Isn't that productive?

I just got a call from the Whittington, one of the worst hospitals in London (or anywhere): I only went there, very reluctantly, because the GP (who obviously hates me) insisted that I go there (never, ever again!). They want me to come back so they can check me over and ruin the veins in the other arm by trying to tap veins that don't exist. So I said the obvious thing: you know the words "hell, freezing and over"? That's when I'll be back.

Now they hate me, too. Boo hoo. I'm going to Starbucks. Infection be damned.

The Cosmic Law of Mr. Murphy

Just when things are looking up. Ish...it's Murphy's Law in action. The joys of constant vertigo (thanks to gentamicin, the gift that keeps on giving). And BPPV- for anyone who is new to this blog, that's Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo-of course, that's for those who are really nerdy (like me), and who want to know what everything means. The crystals of the inner ear (needed for balance) decide to pack their bags and go walkies. While they're on holiday, I'm stumbling all over the place. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you. I bump into things while trying to remain upright. Even my bruises have bruises.

Add to that the fact that it is very, very hot. All my friends at home will laugh at me saying that-because it is summertime, and it's supposed to be in the 80s-and sometimes the 90s. But the only places that have come into the 21st century are the supermarkets (the larger ones) and the major department stores. Everyone else-well, we all just sweat. And when I say sweat, I do mean sweat. There' no such thing as women "glowing", or men "lightly perspiring"- what idiot decided on those terms, anyway? We all sweat. And some of us walk around leaving a trail behind us.

I have to say that this is my least favorite time of the year-I do not do heat very well. In fact, I do not do heat at all. I'm short, so when I'm on the Underground or in a bus-or anywhere with lots of people around- I inevitably come up to someone's armpit. And usually that someone hasn't ever heard of soap and water. And usually that someone has had a huge curry-or a huge amount of garlic-the night before. You get the picture.

So now you know what I've been up to since the last time I posted. I did get to Independence Day (belated happy 4th. I hope that you celebrated), had two lots of Epley maneuver from my physio for the BPPV, but still couldn't do much of any consequence. Only-in November the Brits celebrate Guy Fawkes Day-November 5th, when the poor sap tried (and failed) to blow up the houses of Parliament. No comment on we could use someone better at it today...

Every November I stock up on fireworks-I save them for July 4th, then wait until it's dark and go to the local park to set them off. This is, of course, an offense. Legally you are only allowed to set off fireworks in November 5th-so I could be arrested and imprisoned if I get caught. Trust them here to arrest and jail someone who is setting off fireworks, in a safe place, but not on their holiday-on mine. I would probably get a longer jail sentence than someone who commits mass murder.

The problem with the fireworks here-apart from the fact that they're hideously expensive- is that they're nowhere near as strong as the ones we get at home (from Georgia, the firework capital of the USA). Honestly, you could fart louder than some of the stuff they sell here.If you want proof, just stand in an Underground station and wait for a delayed train. Trust me.

Now-every Independence Day I phone everyone at home. And every Independence Day I get homesick. And maudlin. I was thinking back to everything important that ever happened to me-and I remember years of fireworks in the back garden and terrible limericks. My ex went to an all boys' school, and the boys all seemed to try to make up the grossest limericks.Some were hilarious, and some were-really cringe-worthy. But there are several about farting (of course. Boys will be boys), and I remember one that is somewhere in the middle range, depending on your mood at the time. And here goes:

There once was a fellow called Carter
He was known as a musical farter
He could fart anything from God Save the Queen
To Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata

Don't say I didn't warn you. At least it made me smile. I obviously have to get out more.

And where am I off to now? Starbucks, of course. I'm giving them so much free publicity!

Chickpeas? What chickpeas? Whoe chickpeas?

Amazing to report-but my last post started a shitstorm. Yes- I know- swear box. I've got so many that I'm going to have to get a bigger box-the size of a small car. Or maybe a minibus. Living here-and at this rate-I'll be able to fly to Australia-and everywhere else-first class, and have the accommodation to match.

I think that a few people's brains exploded. And all I said was that British males have balls the size of chickpeas. Imagine criticizing the rest of them. Oh-of course, I did, didn't I?

I was standing in the supermarket, minding my own business, when I heard barking behind me. Barking, as in nearly shouting "chickpeas? What do you mean, chickpeas?" The barking came from Annie, who works as a school dinner lady (God help us), and lives up the road. Now-you don't start any disagreements with Annie. She's nearly six feet tall, probably outweighs me by at least 150 pounds, and is-as the adorably descriptive but perhaps a little vulgar British saying goes-built like a brick shithouse. The woman has the shoulders of a quarterback and the temperament of Attila the Hun. And there she was-in my face.

Oh, hello, I said. I couldn't resist following that up with "do you have a problem with chickpeas?" Duh.

"You said in your blog (she reads my blog-and hasn't beaten the crap out of me. Yet) that British men have testicles the size of chickpeas." Blimy-I didn't know that she could read, much less find my blog. "That's what I said". "And how many have you examined?" she demanded (with a great deal of hostility, I might add).

I took a poll of every woman I know-and more than a few men, too-and they polled everyone they know. And, I'll tell you, if I shagged enough men to have definitive proof, I'd be in the hospital-in intensive care.

"My brother-in-law is very well endowed, and he's English", she said. And she went on to say that his testicles were more like walnuts than chickpeas. What? Brown and wrinkly? Eww...Now I thought: gotcha.
"Well, Annie, you told me that you're gay. So why are you examining your brother-in-law's testicles? Are you a bit of a pervert-or is he trying to convert you?" I was taking a risk now-but some big security guard was standing nearby, so I figured that I would take the chance. Besides that, I was standing in the bottled water aisle.

Annie turned beet red-so red that I wondered if she was going to hit me or simply rupture something. Add to this the fact that we were attracting an audience (Annie has a voice like a bullhorn), she just glared at me and turned around and left. I've been looking over my shoulder ever since.

Like I told you: shitstorm.

Life since then has been pretty uneventful. The huge bandage is off my leg now, replaced by a small waterproof dressing, and I can have a shower. Finally. Simple things, but how they are missed when you suddenly don't have them. For nearly seven weeks, I've had to strip wash: a bowl of soapy water and a washcloth had to do, and I kept looking fondly at the shower. Plus, I had to wash my hair in the kitchen sink. Oh joy- when my nurse took the dressing off and replaced it with a waterproof one, the first thing I did was go home and stand under a hot shower until my skin was the consistency of a prune.

As long as I don't fall over-and as long as some imbecile doesn't knock me over-I'm okay now.  I'd like to be able to say that life returns to normal-but since when has my life been normal?

Good thing I look very innocent-you'd never know that I carry a can of every woman's best friend: mace.

Maimed but not dead- Revenge of the senile vagina brigade?

The senile vaginas would probably call it karma. Of course they would. So it must be karma when all their bits shrivel up and fall off. Huh. Serves them right, too.

I was planning on giving Easter eggs, then writing to tell you about the mixed emails I got about vaginas. I don't really understand why the word vagina upsets people who are perfectly okay about the word fuck.Seriously?
I'm the one who took a poll of every woman I know-and a few men,too- about size. No wonder British men are so-well, British- with penises the size of gherkins and balls the size of chick peas. I wonder if someone would get all huffy if I said testicles? This being England, it's doubtful if they would know how to spell the word. Or what to do with them.

Enough about balls-especially since so few people have them.

Easter-and I was walking through the park with a friend of mine, discussing Brexit. As you do. We were on the pavement, it was mid-morning, bright and sunny-and some imbecile on a bicycle came up behind us, pushed me and knocked the crutch out of my hand, said a few nasty words and off he went, laughing. It was deliberate, there were no cameras anywhere, and really no way to identify the bastard. I hope he gets run over by a bus. Very un-Christian, but hey-seven hours in A&E, heavy blood loss, big gash from knee to ankle-and surgery the next day. Plus four weeks of antibiotics. So-happy Easter to me! I'm finally able to walk.

What the hell! It's been a tough few weeks. And my swear box is so full, I could fly to Australia. I spent a lot of time listening to the political disaster in Parliament-then shook my head and had to keep away from the news. Insane. Makes your teeth clench and your ears bleed. It all made me want to throw things.

So here we are at the end of a very unpleasant (for me, at least) couple of months. Time to move on. And past time to push myself out of the depression that hit me hard at Easter. It's history.

It was exactly six years since the cancer surgery. Some anniversary! But I saw the surgeon on Monday, and he reminded me. So you had six more years than you expected, he said. And when are you going to start living?

If that isn't a good swift kick in the ass, I don't what is.

The Curious Case of the Senile Vagina

This was supposed to be hot on the heels of mentioning poor Phil and his frozen bollocks. Before you have an aneurism: I'm talking about Punxsutawney Phil, the world's most famous groundhog. By now, his bollocks will have thawed out and he'll be over being sedated for Groundhog Day. Poor thing. If it was me, I'd bite the handler, sedation or no sedation. But that's me. And probably you.

It's been a month of the usual appointments (only to be told that I'm in great shape-for my age-hmmm! and that I should come back in six months time. Oh, joy), as well as falling over way too much. So I was back with my physio, having the Epley manoeuvre, and then back in the chair-that chair- being dangled unceremoniously upside down until the nasty BPPV passed, and the crystals in my inner ears decided to return from holiday.

I told you about some of the other tenants in my little area, including the Ugly Sisters, aka Worthless and Useless. That would be Big Flo, previously known as Fatberg (her relatives can be found in London sewers, and you can Google that if you want to be suddenly extremely sick to your stomach).
Flo and her friend, Val: they are two of the most poisonous creatures I have ever met. They spend all day watching daytime television, drinking copious amounts of wine and whisky-do you think that someone who goes through an entire bottle of wine every day-except when she forgets, and has a second one on top of that one-has a problem?

When they aren't drinking and blinding themselves watching the big screen, they are sitting outside (drinking) and making very nasty comments about everyone who is passing by. They do this at top volume, too, which I personally find disgraceful. So much for the Ugly Sisters. They've had a go at nearly everyone who lives in the area, so they aren't exactly on everyone's Christmas card list.

I mention all this because I overheard them the other day-you could overhear them in Dublin, they are that loud-and Flo was saying that she really missed having sex. I just about fell over, I laughed so hard. She glared at me and I said: you've had sex? With someone who was blind and senile? Or was it a goat?

I walked away, and remembered someone from my past: my neighbour from many years ago, when I had only been in this country for a couple of years. Her name was Betty, she was English (nobody is perfect, after all), and she was a really sweet person, very old school (white gloves and a hat to church, very proper. Old school).

I came back from work one afternoon and found Betty almost weeping outside my door. So, of course, I made her a coffee-and put a brandy in it. She asked for a double, and explained to me that she was having problems "down there" (old school, remember. Today everyone is so much more graphic). She went to a well known gynaecologist -privately, no NHS involvement, or she would still be waiting for an appointment. He examined her, and told her that it had been so long that she had a senile vagina. Upset? Seriously?

I just had to laugh. I even choked on my coffee. I asked her if he was an old guy. Yes, she said. Ugly? I asked. Yes again. Well, that was the problem, I told her. He was old, and ugly, and probably gay-most likely gay-and hated women, because nobody under the age of 80 would even look twice at him.

I even checked with my gynaecologist (female), and checked with everyone I knew who was in the medical field. There was no such affliction as a senile vagina. I related this to Betty a couple of days later, and she was so happy-especially since I called him a woman-hating asshole. What could she do but agree?

Well. I remembered the Betty story (true, by the way) as I walked away from the Ugly Sisters. And there is a moral to this story (isn't there always?). The next time some woman-hating doctor pulls this on you, threaten to break his arm. Well, no, that isn't really the moral of the story, it just sounds good.  The next time a couple of ugly old fossils make fun of you (or your friends, or anyone you like), just look at them, think "senile vagina", and have a good laugh. But not while you're driving. That would really be hard to explain.