Three weeks without posting on my blog. I've set a record-and not in a good way, either!!
And where have I been? Well-it's been raining. And raining. And raining. And, as much as I used to like the rain (I live in England, so I'd better like rain!!), it hasn't been my friend since 2010. When it rains, I fall over. And I don't see very well. So, I very nearly fell in front of a bus a couple of times. That was scary; I would have come to a very sticky end (literally), and someone would have had the unfortunate job of scraping me off the road with a spatula. Moving buses? There is no way to win that fight.
So I lay low, and I only went out when I had to-which was nearly every day, because during October all I did was see consultants, and physiotherapists-what a very boring month! And a wet one, too. I rang my nurse to ask him to google building an ark-because it was beginning to look like that was the way to go. And, wouldn't you know it, there are pages of instructions on how to build an ark? There are also many arguments about how long it took Noah to build his, and who helped him...the usual ridiculousness. But ark-building? There it was. I had to laugh. My nurse thought I was nuts. Whatever.
I did take myself to Starbucks (where else?) to get a coffee. It stopped raining (this morning) long enough for me to do that. And I sat there and had to listen to these two plonkers having a discussion at top volume (they clearly thought they were the only ones in the café). I looked at them and I thought to myself: Guardian readers. They must be Guardian readers. And I'll bet they don't work, either-so they are unemployed Guardian readers.
The Guardian is a very right-wing tabloid-well, a half a step up from a tabloid, since whoever writes their drivel actually uses words of more than one syllable (two syllables. More than that would cause such a strain their eyes would bleed).Those who "write" (for want of a better word) just spew bile everywhere. Like the tabloids (the Mail, the Express, the Mirror, the Sun, and all those whose value only extends as far as house training your pet), the Guardian takes itself very seriously. Sadly, so do its readers!!
These two are having this discussion (Guardian readers. God forbid they call anything what it really is: an argument!). They then proceeded to wave the paper around, pointing to it so we all could see that it was-the Guardian! What a shock that wasn't. And they started having a debate about Jews (they hate Jews), and blacks (ditto), and Asians-they hate just about everyone. Then they started on the USA-which, according to their infinite wisdom (??), is responsible for every problem everywhere in the world. The NHS is imploding? Our fault. The world is coming to an end? Yep, clearly our fault.
Plagues, illiteracy in this country, poverty-must be us.
So finally I had enough. I got up, and walked near them, crutch in hand-and as I passed their table, I stopped and looked at them. In my absolute best fake local accent (not bad at times-especially this time), I said:" you have both positively confirmed a suspicion I've had for years. Actually, you proved it as absolute, concrete, unshakeable fact." Before they could ask what I was talking about, I then said: "You proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the plural of brain-dead ignoramus is- the BRITISH!".
Luckily (for me) two women with a load of little kiddies were coming in the door as I was leaving, so they didn't come after me. But I smiled as I left, and I can tell you, I felt quite smug. Not only that, I got home without nearly falling over-so I should tell people off more often-but only if they are smaller than me. These two were-about three times my size. Their fists on my face would not be a good look.
So that was my three week hiatus-and I finally gave in and ordered a new computer with a larger screen. No more hiding from rain and crappy weather, waiting for my eyes to clear.
And it is Halloween!! This is one holiday of ours that seems to have caught on. So, Happy Halloween. I've got too much to say to have no chance to say it (I know that's terrible grammar and syntax, but hey, I live in the UK. It's not as if anybody would know the difference!!).
Thursday, 31 October 2013
Thursday, 10 October 2013
Life is difficult...blah,blah, blah-and then it isn't
Life is difficult...that is the first line of a popular book of many years ago. The author made millions-and then dropped dead of cancer. So much for his life being difficult. Is there a point to this? Not really...it is just an observation - and has it ever been difficult!!
In these two weeks I decided that, technologically speaking, I must be the kiss of death. After I last posted, I went along to see the chest consultant, Lieske, at the chest hospital. She was surprisingly cordial-and I was very surprised. Maybe she got laid the night before, who knows? She certainly was cheerful! And I was weighed and found that I had put on nearly ten pounds since the whole GP/dietician "she is going to develop osteoporosis" thing. I asked Lieske if I could put that much weight on in one week-and she reminded me that I was taking the noxious ProCal Shots that were prescribed. Yuck.
Those were enough to make anybody really make an effort to increase carbs, fats, sugars-anything to avoid drinking stuff that came in two flavors: bad and worse. The banana has never seen a banana-and the strawberry-well, how nasty can it get? Really nasty is the answer. And-I am one of those unlucky people (most of us, probably) who can just look in the direction of food and gain weight. Honestly-I don't eat sugary stuff because I might just as well put it right on my hips. If they all thought I was much too thin, they weren't looking at my hips, that's for sure!
So-I sat outside in Outpatients, and after I endured being weighed, I leaned over to tie my shoelace-and my IPhone leapt out of my pocket and smashed on the concrete floor. Goodbye, touch screen. Did I ever swear!! Luckily nobody was sitting nearby. I could have cried. I jumped through hoops and risked life and limb to go to the Apple store in Covent Garden on a Saturday morning-now THAT is taking one's life in one's hands, even for an able-bodied person. I felt like a sardine in a tin of sardines-but I went, got my phone, was perfectly happy, and then-bang, wallop, touch screen smashed. So I rang the Orange customer service people and arranged for a replacement.
I was blessed with a lecture on dropping the phone and how it was going to cost me excess, even though I was paying an arm and two legs for insurance. So I complained. And-if you don't ask, you don't get. Remember that. Always make as big a fuss as you can. After I spent about ten minutes telling the person how I think Orange and T-Mobile totally suck, the charge was waived. And Orange and T-Mobile do suck. They merged, called themselves EE (Everything Everywhere), but the masts in my area have been down for five months, making it NN (Nothing Nowhere). So I got my way. Good for me, too.
When I decided to post about the delightful, underwhelming and unedifying week I had-my computer wouldn't work. It gave me the finger. It said that the hard disk had been corrupted. So that is why I said that I am-technologically speaking, of course-the kiss of death. First the phone, now the computer.Eeek.
I did everything. I unplugged. I switched off (and it didn't want to switch off). I did everything but kick the thing, and it still gave me the message that the drive was corrupted. Now I wanted to cry. I didn't -but I certainly wanted to, because I could see having to spend hundreds of pounds on a new laptop. I felt like throwing up. So I went through the week, did all the doctor and exercise stuff, and every time I walked past my laptop I looked at it mournfully, accusingly, balefully-I felt so morose, I cannot tell you. Not that it did any good - because it didn't.
Around the corner is a computer shop, and I went in to ask Jamal, the owner, what could be wrong. I could see him almost rubbing his hands at the thought of how much he could charge me (Jamal is not known for his honesty). He insisted that I bring the machine in, and that he would "only" charge me forty pounds to have a look-he charges sixty-five, but for me he would give me a discount. Sure. I said I would bring it in-I hope he isn't still waiting!!
So-yesterday I had to go back to Stanmore to see the consultant. And during the night (I'm an insomniac-I get the best ideas in the middle of the night), it suddenly occurred to me that I had a plug-in for the new wireless keyboard and wireless mouse. These allow me to see more easily, since my balance and vision have worsened markedly since the first operation in May-and I hadn't unplugged the widget (to use a technical term) from the USB port. Before I left for Stanmore, I unplugged the thing, sent a prayer to the gods of computers and technology-or whoever, or whatever-and wouldn't you know, the computer started and was absolutely fine. And I saved myself what would probably have turned out to be a fortune.
Obviously I am not the technological kiss of death I thought I was. In fact, that wasn't bad. Not at all. It only took me two weeks of muttering and staring disconsolately at the deceased (no longer) laptop to figure it out.
And I am now on a single crutch-yippee. Not only that, but I went for physiotherapy this morning, and I've been told I can return to the gym. I have to start with all the easy stuff (sure. Do I ever do anything the easy way? Not likely). But I can return to something that resembles a normal (ish) life.
And I bought an IPhone cover called a Ballistic cover-lots of rubber, so it should protect the phone even if I drop it out the window. Heh-chance will be a fine thing.
I went to Starbucks yesterday, before I had to go to Stanmore. A little celebratory cappuccino-and a man came up behind me and asked if he could get the door for me. This is England-I rather expected him to slam it on me-but he held it for me, I thanked him, he said I was welcome, and then went on his way. Miracles do happen-even though they happen rarely here.
I've said that it's easier finding hen's teeth than it is to find people who have manner, class, breeding-and intelligence. I've been in this country for so many years, I stand by that (just live here for awhile if you don't believe me. I've seen tailors' dummies with more life and brains than most of the people I encounter here). But- every once in a great while I meet someone who actually is different.
I have a feeling that one day I might even meet a male who has both a penis and a brain. Maybe.
In these two weeks I decided that, technologically speaking, I must be the kiss of death. After I last posted, I went along to see the chest consultant, Lieske, at the chest hospital. She was surprisingly cordial-and I was very surprised. Maybe she got laid the night before, who knows? She certainly was cheerful! And I was weighed and found that I had put on nearly ten pounds since the whole GP/dietician "she is going to develop osteoporosis" thing. I asked Lieske if I could put that much weight on in one week-and she reminded me that I was taking the noxious ProCal Shots that were prescribed. Yuck.
Those were enough to make anybody really make an effort to increase carbs, fats, sugars-anything to avoid drinking stuff that came in two flavors: bad and worse. The banana has never seen a banana-and the strawberry-well, how nasty can it get? Really nasty is the answer. And-I am one of those unlucky people (most of us, probably) who can just look in the direction of food and gain weight. Honestly-I don't eat sugary stuff because I might just as well put it right on my hips. If they all thought I was much too thin, they weren't looking at my hips, that's for sure!
So-I sat outside in Outpatients, and after I endured being weighed, I leaned over to tie my shoelace-and my IPhone leapt out of my pocket and smashed on the concrete floor. Goodbye, touch screen. Did I ever swear!! Luckily nobody was sitting nearby. I could have cried. I jumped through hoops and risked life and limb to go to the Apple store in Covent Garden on a Saturday morning-now THAT is taking one's life in one's hands, even for an able-bodied person. I felt like a sardine in a tin of sardines-but I went, got my phone, was perfectly happy, and then-bang, wallop, touch screen smashed. So I rang the Orange customer service people and arranged for a replacement.
I was blessed with a lecture on dropping the phone and how it was going to cost me excess, even though I was paying an arm and two legs for insurance. So I complained. And-if you don't ask, you don't get. Remember that. Always make as big a fuss as you can. After I spent about ten minutes telling the person how I think Orange and T-Mobile totally suck, the charge was waived. And Orange and T-Mobile do suck. They merged, called themselves EE (Everything Everywhere), but the masts in my area have been down for five months, making it NN (Nothing Nowhere). So I got my way. Good for me, too.
When I decided to post about the delightful, underwhelming and unedifying week I had-my computer wouldn't work. It gave me the finger. It said that the hard disk had been corrupted. So that is why I said that I am-technologically speaking, of course-the kiss of death. First the phone, now the computer.Eeek.
I did everything. I unplugged. I switched off (and it didn't want to switch off). I did everything but kick the thing, and it still gave me the message that the drive was corrupted. Now I wanted to cry. I didn't -but I certainly wanted to, because I could see having to spend hundreds of pounds on a new laptop. I felt like throwing up. So I went through the week, did all the doctor and exercise stuff, and every time I walked past my laptop I looked at it mournfully, accusingly, balefully-I felt so morose, I cannot tell you. Not that it did any good - because it didn't.
Around the corner is a computer shop, and I went in to ask Jamal, the owner, what could be wrong. I could see him almost rubbing his hands at the thought of how much he could charge me (Jamal is not known for his honesty). He insisted that I bring the machine in, and that he would "only" charge me forty pounds to have a look-he charges sixty-five, but for me he would give me a discount. Sure. I said I would bring it in-I hope he isn't still waiting!!
So-yesterday I had to go back to Stanmore to see the consultant. And during the night (I'm an insomniac-I get the best ideas in the middle of the night), it suddenly occurred to me that I had a plug-in for the new wireless keyboard and wireless mouse. These allow me to see more easily, since my balance and vision have worsened markedly since the first operation in May-and I hadn't unplugged the widget (to use a technical term) from the USB port. Before I left for Stanmore, I unplugged the thing, sent a prayer to the gods of computers and technology-or whoever, or whatever-and wouldn't you know, the computer started and was absolutely fine. And I saved myself what would probably have turned out to be a fortune.
Obviously I am not the technological kiss of death I thought I was. In fact, that wasn't bad. Not at all. It only took me two weeks of muttering and staring disconsolately at the deceased (no longer) laptop to figure it out.
And I am now on a single crutch-yippee. Not only that, but I went for physiotherapy this morning, and I've been told I can return to the gym. I have to start with all the easy stuff (sure. Do I ever do anything the easy way? Not likely). But I can return to something that resembles a normal (ish) life.
And I bought an IPhone cover called a Ballistic cover-lots of rubber, so it should protect the phone even if I drop it out the window. Heh-chance will be a fine thing.
I went to Starbucks yesterday, before I had to go to Stanmore. A little celebratory cappuccino-and a man came up behind me and asked if he could get the door for me. This is England-I rather expected him to slam it on me-but he held it for me, I thanked him, he said I was welcome, and then went on his way. Miracles do happen-even though they happen rarely here.
I've said that it's easier finding hen's teeth than it is to find people who have manner, class, breeding-and intelligence. I've been in this country for so many years, I stand by that (just live here for awhile if you don't believe me. I've seen tailors' dummies with more life and brains than most of the people I encounter here). But- every once in a great while I meet someone who actually is different.
I have a feeling that one day I might even meet a male who has both a penis and a brain. Maybe.
Friday, 27 September 2013
Still alive, still kicking (only with one leg, and carefully!)
Nope, not dead yet. In spite of the best efforts of the medical community and the NHS, I am still very much alive!! Clearly, I am just very hard to kill...
I know I haven't been online for two and a bit weeks-and they have been two very difficult weeks, too. After my last post, I had to start physiotherapy at the London branch of the RNOH-at Bolsover Street, so it is much closer to the house. And that went well, although it was difficult and painful. My physio, Ollie, showed me how to use the crutches properly. He said that the people at Stanmore gave me bad information-well, no surprises there, as we now know!!
But-my balance and my eyesight have really deteriorated, and I threw a wobbler last week and nearly ended up under a bus. That was close; someone I knew grabbed me just before I fell. Imagine going through these awful five months, only to be splattered all over the road and have to be scraped up by a spatula. And it wasn't even an upmarket bus, either!!
Ollie said to do my exercises-and I have been doing those, since I don't want to be limping for the rest of my life! He also said I should rest as much as possible, since I need to recover from two operations, not just one. Good point.
And-you will like this (but not a lot): I have to gain weight. Yes, I am just over 100 pounds now-I think I haven't weighed this little since I was 12-but I have been given orders by-well, just about everyone.
On Monday I saw both Margaret (GP) and Coletta, the dietician. They both said that my BMI is far too low, and that is why I am too exhausted to do anything. I asked if I am in danger of going down the plughole along with the bathwater-bad joke, I know, and they thought so, too. So I have to eat more, eat more often, and all that stuff. My friend NJ said I shouldn't expect any sympathy, because most people want to lose weight, not gain it!
Margaret also said that the lighter I am, the greater the chance of developing osteoporosis. That made me very nervous. Imagine - I have a choice. I can stay very thin but have a huge risk of sneezing and breaking a hip-or I can gain a few pounds...hmmm, I need to think about this a bit!
While I am thinking, I am going to risk life and limbs and get out the old crutches and go up the road to Starbucks for a nice big cappuccino. Lots of calories-and I get to people watch, so if I find anything funny (and I usually do), I will report back.
I said I was back last time, and that was a bit premature. But I am really and truly back-even if I do look like a bag of bones!! I might as well enjoy it for as long as it lasts....
I know I haven't been online for two and a bit weeks-and they have been two very difficult weeks, too. After my last post, I had to start physiotherapy at the London branch of the RNOH-at Bolsover Street, so it is much closer to the house. And that went well, although it was difficult and painful. My physio, Ollie, showed me how to use the crutches properly. He said that the people at Stanmore gave me bad information-well, no surprises there, as we now know!!
But-my balance and my eyesight have really deteriorated, and I threw a wobbler last week and nearly ended up under a bus. That was close; someone I knew grabbed me just before I fell. Imagine going through these awful five months, only to be splattered all over the road and have to be scraped up by a spatula. And it wasn't even an upmarket bus, either!!
Ollie said to do my exercises-and I have been doing those, since I don't want to be limping for the rest of my life! He also said I should rest as much as possible, since I need to recover from two operations, not just one. Good point.
And-you will like this (but not a lot): I have to gain weight. Yes, I am just over 100 pounds now-I think I haven't weighed this little since I was 12-but I have been given orders by-well, just about everyone.
On Monday I saw both Margaret (GP) and Coletta, the dietician. They both said that my BMI is far too low, and that is why I am too exhausted to do anything. I asked if I am in danger of going down the plughole along with the bathwater-bad joke, I know, and they thought so, too. So I have to eat more, eat more often, and all that stuff. My friend NJ said I shouldn't expect any sympathy, because most people want to lose weight, not gain it!
Margaret also said that the lighter I am, the greater the chance of developing osteoporosis. That made me very nervous. Imagine - I have a choice. I can stay very thin but have a huge risk of sneezing and breaking a hip-or I can gain a few pounds...hmmm, I need to think about this a bit!
While I am thinking, I am going to risk life and limbs and get out the old crutches and go up the road to Starbucks for a nice big cappuccino. Lots of calories-and I get to people watch, so if I find anything funny (and I usually do), I will report back.
I said I was back last time, and that was a bit premature. But I am really and truly back-even if I do look like a bag of bones!! I might as well enjoy it for as long as it lasts....
Thursday, 12 September 2013
The Good, the Bad, and the bingo wing
Three weeks ago - on Tuesday - I had the surgery. My, doesn't time fly!! And it has been a pretty rough time. In fact, I kept asking myself why I was so nuts as to have such a painful operation so soon after the mastectomy. I just wanted the whole thing to be over, so I don't have to look forward to any surgery in the near future. I am done with surgery!!
The good thing is that the pain level has decreased. I still have pain, but it isn't so excruciating that I sit and cry about it. It's bearable now-and when I do too much walking, or moving around, and the knee swells up, I just rest it and know that it will be fine-eventually.
With the good inevitably seems to come the bad: on Tuesday I saw my neurologist, Dr. Turner (aka Dr. Dimples). He was very late-but all NHS doctors seem to always be late!! We spoke about the knee thing (I am on crutches. We couldn't exactly avoid talking about it!), and the cancer, and he said that it has been a very bad-and stressful- year. No, really? He also said that I probably have made as much progress as I am going to make, given that it has been three years since the initial gentamicin poisoning. I asked him about the setbacks of the past few months-and he advised me to go back to the very first exercises, since my nystagmus has returned and my eyes are moving around of their own accord. He said to just keep doing as much as I can to try to return to where I was before disaster struck earlier in the year. And he will see me in twelve months, at which time he will have to discharge me from the clinic, since-he said-he can't keep me on the books indefinitely. He wants to see if I have made any progress in the next year.
I was so discouraged, I went home and went to bed early. I really didn't feel like talking to anyone, or going online-I know it's been over a week, but severe pain and sleep deprivation kept me from doing much-but this setback was really very painful.
So I thought about everything very seriously yesterday. I thought about the surgeries, the illnesses, the setbacks to my balance and vision-and I decided that it is possible that Dr. Dimples is mistaken. I return to everything I have read about neuroplasticity, new neural pathways, the fact that we just don't have enough information about the brain (yet) to make that kind of hard and fast judgment. So I refuse to quit. I have a year to prove Dimples wrong: I have a year to get back to that all important 80%-more, in fact, if I can do it. It just means that I need to stay healthy. No falling down concrete steps and landing knee first!! I have a replaced kneecap now, and I don't want to have to have a brand new knee to go with it. And-there is no reason I can't stay out of hospitals, providing I do everything I can to keep myself healthy. I need to get back to that optimistic mindset-the one where I refuse to give up, because I know I can do it. I just need to do the work-and I have become pretty lazy, I can tell you!!
And then there are those bingo wings. I have to mention those, because they are the scourge of women everywhere-right up there with fat thighs, hips and backside, muffin tops, bra fat, and, of course, the awful turkey neck!! Is this relevant? Of course it is.
When I first got the crutches I said to a couple of nurses (that was when they were still speaking to me) that at least I would be able to get rid of my bingo wings. They laughed and said that the muscles were the wrong ones. Er...well, yes and no. Can I explain? Well, I thought you would never ask.
Bingo wings are the fatty areas between the armpit and the elbow, and just about every woman I know has them. Some are so large that if someone raised both arms together, she would look like a huge bat. And imagine suddenly raising your arm, having a wing fly out and give some poor innocent bystander a black eye. Try explaining that to the paramedics (or police). Errant bingo wing causes facial damage...whatever. So we all cover up, wearing long sleeves to ensure this never happens-and because it looks terrible. I used to see women at the gym, doing tricep dips until their arms nearly dropped off-and when they were done, they still had those bingo wings. And probably something they ruptured, too.
Why, you ask, is this relevant? Duh?? Because I have found a cure,that's why. It isn't surgery (are there things like bingo wing lifts? Probably). Or hours of daily tricep exercises. Or special creams (rip off!!), or pounding or pummeling. The cure is... crutches. That is what I said: crutches. You read it first here, and you got it for free. How good is that??
I have been on crutches for three weeks, and my arms are developing biceps that are finally bigger than a sparrow's kneecaps...make that a sparrow's elbows, kneecaps are a sore point with me (literally!). But all the shlepping around with crutches, and trying to get it the way the physiotherapists told me (crutches down, then bad leg, then good leg, then crutches, etc), and I have noticed that my bingo wings are shrinking. They were never bat-sized, but they are shrinking. And that is due to the crutches, because I'm not doing anything else.
So there you are. Get some crutches-not the old type that sit in your armpit, but the ones with the plastic thingy (a technical term if there ever was one) that goes around the elbow, keeping the crutches from dropping. And walk. A lot. And lift yourself on the crutches. A lot. And say goodbye to bingo wings and long sleeves.
Let me know how it goes. When those wings are gone, you can take me to lunch. Huh. I should write a book, I would make millions.
And by the way: I'm back....
The good thing is that the pain level has decreased. I still have pain, but it isn't so excruciating that I sit and cry about it. It's bearable now-and when I do too much walking, or moving around, and the knee swells up, I just rest it and know that it will be fine-eventually.
With the good inevitably seems to come the bad: on Tuesday I saw my neurologist, Dr. Turner (aka Dr. Dimples). He was very late-but all NHS doctors seem to always be late!! We spoke about the knee thing (I am on crutches. We couldn't exactly avoid talking about it!), and the cancer, and he said that it has been a very bad-and stressful- year. No, really? He also said that I probably have made as much progress as I am going to make, given that it has been three years since the initial gentamicin poisoning. I asked him about the setbacks of the past few months-and he advised me to go back to the very first exercises, since my nystagmus has returned and my eyes are moving around of their own accord. He said to just keep doing as much as I can to try to return to where I was before disaster struck earlier in the year. And he will see me in twelve months, at which time he will have to discharge me from the clinic, since-he said-he can't keep me on the books indefinitely. He wants to see if I have made any progress in the next year.
I was so discouraged, I went home and went to bed early. I really didn't feel like talking to anyone, or going online-I know it's been over a week, but severe pain and sleep deprivation kept me from doing much-but this setback was really very painful.
So I thought about everything very seriously yesterday. I thought about the surgeries, the illnesses, the setbacks to my balance and vision-and I decided that it is possible that Dr. Dimples is mistaken. I return to everything I have read about neuroplasticity, new neural pathways, the fact that we just don't have enough information about the brain (yet) to make that kind of hard and fast judgment. So I refuse to quit. I have a year to prove Dimples wrong: I have a year to get back to that all important 80%-more, in fact, if I can do it. It just means that I need to stay healthy. No falling down concrete steps and landing knee first!! I have a replaced kneecap now, and I don't want to have to have a brand new knee to go with it. And-there is no reason I can't stay out of hospitals, providing I do everything I can to keep myself healthy. I need to get back to that optimistic mindset-the one where I refuse to give up, because I know I can do it. I just need to do the work-and I have become pretty lazy, I can tell you!!
And then there are those bingo wings. I have to mention those, because they are the scourge of women everywhere-right up there with fat thighs, hips and backside, muffin tops, bra fat, and, of course, the awful turkey neck!! Is this relevant? Of course it is.
When I first got the crutches I said to a couple of nurses (that was when they were still speaking to me) that at least I would be able to get rid of my bingo wings. They laughed and said that the muscles were the wrong ones. Er...well, yes and no. Can I explain? Well, I thought you would never ask.
Bingo wings are the fatty areas between the armpit and the elbow, and just about every woman I know has them. Some are so large that if someone raised both arms together, she would look like a huge bat. And imagine suddenly raising your arm, having a wing fly out and give some poor innocent bystander a black eye. Try explaining that to the paramedics (or police). Errant bingo wing causes facial damage...whatever. So we all cover up, wearing long sleeves to ensure this never happens-and because it looks terrible. I used to see women at the gym, doing tricep dips until their arms nearly dropped off-and when they were done, they still had those bingo wings. And probably something they ruptured, too.
Why, you ask, is this relevant? Duh?? Because I have found a cure,that's why. It isn't surgery (are there things like bingo wing lifts? Probably). Or hours of daily tricep exercises. Or special creams (rip off!!), or pounding or pummeling. The cure is... crutches. That is what I said: crutches. You read it first here, and you got it for free. How good is that??
I have been on crutches for three weeks, and my arms are developing biceps that are finally bigger than a sparrow's kneecaps...make that a sparrow's elbows, kneecaps are a sore point with me (literally!). But all the shlepping around with crutches, and trying to get it the way the physiotherapists told me (crutches down, then bad leg, then good leg, then crutches, etc), and I have noticed that my bingo wings are shrinking. They were never bat-sized, but they are shrinking. And that is due to the crutches, because I'm not doing anything else.
So there you are. Get some crutches-not the old type that sit in your armpit, but the ones with the plastic thingy (a technical term if there ever was one) that goes around the elbow, keeping the crutches from dropping. And walk. A lot. And lift yourself on the crutches. A lot. And say goodbye to bingo wings and long sleeves.
Let me know how it goes. When those wings are gone, you can take me to lunch. Huh. I should write a book, I would make millions.
And by the way: I'm back....
Tuesday, 3 September 2013
oxycodone: drug choice of champions (and me)
Very sorry if you thought I was dead-of course, I'm very glad I'm not dead, but the last two weeks since surgery I thought the pain was going to kill me off.
I went off to surgery two weeks ago (today)-and I just had a sneaky feeling that I wasn't going back to the Newman (private patients) ward. I just had that feeling that I was lied to, just to get me to surgery. And-I was right.
I ended up in Intensive Care for the night-nothing exciting, all surgical patients end up there, so their vital signs can be monitored. I was given oxycodone for the pain-intravenously-and that worked really well. I still felt pain, but I was too sleepy and too out of it to care!!
The next day I was told I was returning to the Angus MacKinnon ward-exactly where I didn't want to go, given the complaints I'd made about the ward, the nurses, the care..so I said no thank you. And the bed manager, Craig, was called in to smooth things over. After about four hours, he came back with an offer: if I would return to MacKinnon, the bathroom would be cleaned, signs put up-and the nurses would see every patient plus visitors to tell them not to use the room because it was reserved for someone who was highly contagious (I love that bit. Would you use a bathroom if that is what you were told? I wouldn't. But read on..).
The nurses didn't pay a blind bit of notice. And this time, they were overtly hostile. After all, I had complained-and named names. So I was told they wouldn't be adhering to this, and that if I wanted a private room I should have gone to a private hospital. I responded by saying that if I got any kind of infection, they would all be held accountable. And I relayed all this to Craig. Happy days.
One nurse offered me a commode (fancy name for bedpan) that I could have in the room; she said they would give me a bowl and I could have a wash that way. I asked if they were going to do this for seven days-I asked what century they were in-and I asked if they were planning on giving me a tent to go with the commode and the bowl-perhaps a camping stove, so I could just move out into the car park? They didn't find that funny, and I let them know I thought they were morons. Not a good way to spend seven days!!
When I got out-finally-on Wednesday night, the nursing sister accompanied the transport ambulance driver -and me- to the exit. I think she wanted to make certain I was really leaving. Nursing sister: that's like a head nurse, but without the pay, the ability, or the brains. Anyway, off I went.
So here I am, and did I put in a formal complaint with everyone of any significance? Come on, is the Pope Catholic? You bet I complained. I think I gave poor Craig an ulcer!
I've continued on the oxycodone since Wednesday-but it doesn't have much of an effect now. So I've been in bed since Wednesday, and I've been too sick and in too much pain to write-or eat-or write nasty emails to anyone!!
But hey, here I am, I'm back....and I'm staying back!! And I still have a lot of the mixed nuts Andy brought me. I can honestly say that I don't want to see another almond, or hazelnut, or brazil nut, or any kind of nut-until Christmas. 2016!
I went off to surgery two weeks ago (today)-and I just had a sneaky feeling that I wasn't going back to the Newman (private patients) ward. I just had that feeling that I was lied to, just to get me to surgery. And-I was right.
I ended up in Intensive Care for the night-nothing exciting, all surgical patients end up there, so their vital signs can be monitored. I was given oxycodone for the pain-intravenously-and that worked really well. I still felt pain, but I was too sleepy and too out of it to care!!
The next day I was told I was returning to the Angus MacKinnon ward-exactly where I didn't want to go, given the complaints I'd made about the ward, the nurses, the care..so I said no thank you. And the bed manager, Craig, was called in to smooth things over. After about four hours, he came back with an offer: if I would return to MacKinnon, the bathroom would be cleaned, signs put up-and the nurses would see every patient plus visitors to tell them not to use the room because it was reserved for someone who was highly contagious (I love that bit. Would you use a bathroom if that is what you were told? I wouldn't. But read on..).
The nurses didn't pay a blind bit of notice. And this time, they were overtly hostile. After all, I had complained-and named names. So I was told they wouldn't be adhering to this, and that if I wanted a private room I should have gone to a private hospital. I responded by saying that if I got any kind of infection, they would all be held accountable. And I relayed all this to Craig. Happy days.
One nurse offered me a commode (fancy name for bedpan) that I could have in the room; she said they would give me a bowl and I could have a wash that way. I asked if they were going to do this for seven days-I asked what century they were in-and I asked if they were planning on giving me a tent to go with the commode and the bowl-perhaps a camping stove, so I could just move out into the car park? They didn't find that funny, and I let them know I thought they were morons. Not a good way to spend seven days!!
When I got out-finally-on Wednesday night, the nursing sister accompanied the transport ambulance driver -and me- to the exit. I think she wanted to make certain I was really leaving. Nursing sister: that's like a head nurse, but without the pay, the ability, or the brains. Anyway, off I went.
So here I am, and did I put in a formal complaint with everyone of any significance? Come on, is the Pope Catholic? You bet I complained. I think I gave poor Craig an ulcer!
I've continued on the oxycodone since Wednesday-but it doesn't have much of an effect now. So I've been in bed since Wednesday, and I've been too sick and in too much pain to write-or eat-or write nasty emails to anyone!!
But hey, here I am, I'm back....and I'm staying back!! And I still have a lot of the mixed nuts Andy brought me. I can honestly say that I don't want to see another almond, or hazelnut, or brazil nut, or any kind of nut-until Christmas. 2016!
Tuesday, 20 August 2013
Some you win, and some you don't-obstinacy is a good thing!!
I was moved out of the room yesterday-but I was moved just across the hall, same private ward. It's a very small, dark room-and things need to be fixed (lights not working, and stuff like that)-but it comes with a small bathroom, and that is the important thing.
A few nurses are walking around with their noses so far in the air, I am surprised they haven't fallen over and knocked themselves unconscious. But I got what I wanted (and needed): a clean, private room that will be safe enough after surgery this afternoon, and I can probably keep the room until I go home.
It pays to be obstinate. It works to be persistent, and not allow yourself to be bullied or intimidated by anyone or anything!! Personally, if members of the staff are rude (they are, very) I don't give a rat's patootie. I'm here for the rest of my stay, courtesy of the NHS. It's about time I got something out of them!!!
I saw Val last night, and Mr. Skinner about an hour ago. I'm still not sure what he is going to do-but I did say that I don't want to go through another operation like this in my lifetime-so when I awaken in recovery later, I will know if he heard me or not. This is the NHS; unless you go private, you don't even know who is doing the surgery. I did ask him if he will do it himself, and he said he would...and, after the gentamicin incident three years ago, I really have trouble trusting anyone in the NHS.
I will be unconscious. For all I know, I could be operated on by a chimpanzee.
I am learning a lot about myself, what I will tolerate and what I won't tolerate-and the latter list is much longer than the former!! I'm not sure if I have age and experience to thank-or cancer-or all three. But I see myself as becoming far more formidable, and I've had enough of taking crap from people. You have to fight for what you know is right...sometimes you succeed, and sometimes you don't - but at least you make the effort.
When they are rude to me here-I just think to myself: aren't you a total ***hole!!! And I smile. Because I won.
Time to get ready for - whatever. I have an arrow drawn on my leg; I suppose they need to remember which one they are operating on!!
A few nurses are walking around with their noses so far in the air, I am surprised they haven't fallen over and knocked themselves unconscious. But I got what I wanted (and needed): a clean, private room that will be safe enough after surgery this afternoon, and I can probably keep the room until I go home.
It pays to be obstinate. It works to be persistent, and not allow yourself to be bullied or intimidated by anyone or anything!! Personally, if members of the staff are rude (they are, very) I don't give a rat's patootie. I'm here for the rest of my stay, courtesy of the NHS. It's about time I got something out of them!!!
I saw Val last night, and Mr. Skinner about an hour ago. I'm still not sure what he is going to do-but I did say that I don't want to go through another operation like this in my lifetime-so when I awaken in recovery later, I will know if he heard me or not. This is the NHS; unless you go private, you don't even know who is doing the surgery. I did ask him if he will do it himself, and he said he would...and, after the gentamicin incident three years ago, I really have trouble trusting anyone in the NHS.
I will be unconscious. For all I know, I could be operated on by a chimpanzee.
I am learning a lot about myself, what I will tolerate and what I won't tolerate-and the latter list is much longer than the former!! I'm not sure if I have age and experience to thank-or cancer-or all three. But I see myself as becoming far more formidable, and I've had enough of taking crap from people. You have to fight for what you know is right...sometimes you succeed, and sometimes you don't - but at least you make the effort.
When they are rude to me here-I just think to myself: aren't you a total ***hole!!! And I smile. Because I won.
Time to get ready for - whatever. I have an arrow drawn on my leg; I suppose they need to remember which one they are operating on!!
Monday, 19 August 2013
Never underestimate the value part 2 (or maybe, part 3)I
Sam just didn't get it. I reminded her that I am the one who is at risk of infection from other people-and that it is not the other way around. But I could see that any logical argument was useless. So- I put in a call to Val Taylor.
Val is Mr. Skinner's anaesthetist. I rang the office and left a message asking that she stop in to see me before going home-if it was possible. Twenty minutes later, one of the nasty nurses came rushing in, demanding to know if I was in pain. The message the ward got was that I had called Val because I was in pain, and the nurse was extremely hostile, because she said that I should have rung the buzzer for medication if I was in pain. I said I hadn't rung to speak with Val for any problems with pain, and that the ward got it wrong. I wanted to see Val for something else. What? she demanded not that it was her business- so I said I'm thinking of cancelling surgery. And Sam came back-and she was furious. We've worked so hard on getting all this done, blah, blah, blah. She kept saying not to worry about it, and left. Easy for her to say don't worry. So I waited for Val.
Val came to see me at 5:30. I told her everything: the attitudes, the nastiness, even the crap service. She said I should be treated the same as everyone else, but reminded me that on the private ward I was going to get that kind of attitude-and asked if food was important. I said it wasn't-but wasn't it interesting the way there were two types of service: one for the paying customers, one for the NHS customers. We had a laugh about that-then got onto the real subject: the room.
I told her that the staff keep telling me that I will be moved out, that I shouldn't be in a private ward. And she excused herself, and said she would be back in a minute. About ten minutes later, Val returned. She had written in my notes-in big letters, she said-that I am not to be moved out of this room before surgery on Tuesday, and if anyone tried to move me, there would be no surgery. Val went on to say that she had tried to contact the administrators, but everyone had gone for the weekend. So-she emailed them, and demanded an answer on Monday (today).
She told them that she wanted me to remain in this room in this ward until I am discharged from the hospital next week. She then went on to say that if I go on a ward and people get pseudomonas, or if I contract an infection in the new knee, the hospital would be in serious legal trouble.
Val is the first one who has been actually in my corner; I could have hugged her. So I said thanks, and told her how much I appreciated her fighting for me, and she said that she would let me know what happens. Then we talked about her daughter, who wants to move to an area of London which is familiar to me, and she left at around 6:30. And I felt that maybe, maybe something would finally work in my favor. Finally.
Saturday I spent six hours in the Intensive Care Unit; I needed to have a whacking big dose of immunoglobulin (intravenously), and I had to go there to have it done. Part of me was afraid they would sell this room while I was gone!! But I remembered what Val said, and I was okay.
I said the dongle doesn't work-and that is why I have been offline for so long. True-but I discovered yesterday (I asked one of the friendly nurses-probably friendly because she was an agency nurse) that there is free internet access for the private patients. Hallelujah!! I may get lousy food, nasty people-but I have a private room and a private bathroom (for now, at least)-and free internet service.
Silver lining!
Mr. Skinner didn't come in this morning - I'm not a private patient, so he isn't obliged to see me until the morning of the surgery: tomorrow. But who did come in? The registrar, Jake-and Sam. We spoke a little about the surgery itself, which will happen around 3pm. Then the two people were going to leave-and Jake asked me if I had any questions.
Who am I? I'm a pushy New Yorker, that is who I am!! I have lived here for more than half my life, but once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. So I said-about the room...And I pushed it. And Sam, bless her (the hubris of youth, I guess) said not to worry. So I snapped don't tell me not to worry. Jake said he heard something about Val going to speak with people, but he said he didn't really want to become involved (excuse me?? Aren't you one of my doctors???).
I stood my ground, and Jake finally said that he would speak with Mr. Skinner and one of them will tell me tomorrow what is going on.
Then I said: I will not go into surgery without knowing exactly where I am going to be when I get out of Intensive Care on Wednesday morning. Don't worry isn't good enough. Don't worry, trust us, blah, blah, blah.
I said-and forcefully-that unless I know where I am going on Wednesday when I return to the ward-and unless I have everyone's assurances (that is, the people in charge), I will cancel surgery.
I told Jake outright that I am not risking my life and my health so the hospital can make money on this room. You don't want to tell me where, and give me the details? Then I am going home.,
And that is non-negotiable.
Fight for your rights. Nobody else will!!
I will let you know what happens tomorrow.
Val is Mr. Skinner's anaesthetist. I rang the office and left a message asking that she stop in to see me before going home-if it was possible. Twenty minutes later, one of the nasty nurses came rushing in, demanding to know if I was in pain. The message the ward got was that I had called Val because I was in pain, and the nurse was extremely hostile, because she said that I should have rung the buzzer for medication if I was in pain. I said I hadn't rung to speak with Val for any problems with pain, and that the ward got it wrong. I wanted to see Val for something else. What? she demanded not that it was her business- so I said I'm thinking of cancelling surgery. And Sam came back-and she was furious. We've worked so hard on getting all this done, blah, blah, blah. She kept saying not to worry about it, and left. Easy for her to say don't worry. So I waited for Val.
Val came to see me at 5:30. I told her everything: the attitudes, the nastiness, even the crap service. She said I should be treated the same as everyone else, but reminded me that on the private ward I was going to get that kind of attitude-and asked if food was important. I said it wasn't-but wasn't it interesting the way there were two types of service: one for the paying customers, one for the NHS customers. We had a laugh about that-then got onto the real subject: the room.
I told her that the staff keep telling me that I will be moved out, that I shouldn't be in a private ward. And she excused herself, and said she would be back in a minute. About ten minutes later, Val returned. She had written in my notes-in big letters, she said-that I am not to be moved out of this room before surgery on Tuesday, and if anyone tried to move me, there would be no surgery. Val went on to say that she had tried to contact the administrators, but everyone had gone for the weekend. So-she emailed them, and demanded an answer on Monday (today).
She told them that she wanted me to remain in this room in this ward until I am discharged from the hospital next week. She then went on to say that if I go on a ward and people get pseudomonas, or if I contract an infection in the new knee, the hospital would be in serious legal trouble.
Val is the first one who has been actually in my corner; I could have hugged her. So I said thanks, and told her how much I appreciated her fighting for me, and she said that she would let me know what happens. Then we talked about her daughter, who wants to move to an area of London which is familiar to me, and she left at around 6:30. And I felt that maybe, maybe something would finally work in my favor. Finally.
Saturday I spent six hours in the Intensive Care Unit; I needed to have a whacking big dose of immunoglobulin (intravenously), and I had to go there to have it done. Part of me was afraid they would sell this room while I was gone!! But I remembered what Val said, and I was okay.
I said the dongle doesn't work-and that is why I have been offline for so long. True-but I discovered yesterday (I asked one of the friendly nurses-probably friendly because she was an agency nurse) that there is free internet access for the private patients. Hallelujah!! I may get lousy food, nasty people-but I have a private room and a private bathroom (for now, at least)-and free internet service.
Silver lining!
Mr. Skinner didn't come in this morning - I'm not a private patient, so he isn't obliged to see me until the morning of the surgery: tomorrow. But who did come in? The registrar, Jake-and Sam. We spoke a little about the surgery itself, which will happen around 3pm. Then the two people were going to leave-and Jake asked me if I had any questions.
Who am I? I'm a pushy New Yorker, that is who I am!! I have lived here for more than half my life, but once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. So I said-about the room...And I pushed it. And Sam, bless her (the hubris of youth, I guess) said not to worry. So I snapped don't tell me not to worry. Jake said he heard something about Val going to speak with people, but he said he didn't really want to become involved (excuse me?? Aren't you one of my doctors???).
I stood my ground, and Jake finally said that he would speak with Mr. Skinner and one of them will tell me tomorrow what is going on.
Then I said: I will not go into surgery without knowing exactly where I am going to be when I get out of Intensive Care on Wednesday morning. Don't worry isn't good enough. Don't worry, trust us, blah, blah, blah.
I said-and forcefully-that unless I know where I am going on Wednesday when I return to the ward-and unless I have everyone's assurances (that is, the people in charge), I will cancel surgery.
I told Jake outright that I am not risking my life and my health so the hospital can make money on this room. You don't want to tell me where, and give me the details? Then I am going home.,
And that is non-negotiable.
Fight for your rights. Nobody else will!!
I will let you know what happens tomorrow.
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