Coming out of the dark --Coming in from the cold

Life certainly seems better when you can lift your arms-and lift a kettle-without excruciating pain. It took awhile, but I am on the mend-slowly but surely. Mostly slowly.

Tuesday afternoon marked two weeks since the ambulance drivers took me on a magical mystery tour of North London as they tried to find my house. Err.. good thing I wasn't seriously ill, wasn't it? And Wednesday night marked three weeks since the surgery. I remember these things, if only to process everything three weeks after the event. Process everything that happened-and then let it go. Easier said than done-especially now that I am on food that I can recognize, not something that I felt might have been recycled toxic waste (perhaps not even recycled).

Last week I had only been out of the hospital for a few days-and still on painkillers-but I had to do the hospital run anyway. It turned out to be tiring, and painful-but really beneficial. I saw Mr. Tan (the oncologist who performed the mastectomy and referred me to Mr. H. for the reconstruction). He was very pleased with the result, very encouraging, and will see me next in November. He said that most post-cancer patients will be checked annually for five years, and then if all is well they will be discharged from the clinic. But-because I have the immune system dysfunction, he wants to check me every six months or so, just to make certain that nothing nasty is happening. He's a hero in my book, that is for sure. Mr. Tan instills confidence-and he laughs at my jokes, so what more can I ask for?

I also had to make a double journey on Thursday: back to the Royal Free so that the nurses could check the wound, and then on to the Macmillan Cancer Centre to discuss the findings of the throat biopsy. AND-it was raining, so I really had a hellish time trying to walk without falling over-or falling into traffic. I was in tears when it was all over. But the wound was fine, no sign of infection, and I see Mr. H. in about six weeks for a check-up and to discuss the reconstruction of nipples; this will take place in October some time, and with the tattoos following, I will be absolutely finished with all the surgery (plastic and, I hope, anything else) before Christmas.

I'm cautiously optimistic-but more cautious than optimistic, since I know how Murphy's Law seems to operate at the most inconvenient times. It comes up and punches me in the face, and then the black dog (of depression) comes along and takes a big chunk out of my ass. I'm cynical-but I am also still alive, so I think a good bit of cynicism is healthy. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The throat biopsy turned up some nodules that aren't malignant in any way, so I just have to live with them and try to stay hydrated. The consultant was charming, said there is nothing to worry about, and I have been discharged from that clinic, too. So I have gone from being a professional patient at eight hospitals to being a patient at one (and occasionally one other: Queen Square, and that finishes in September).

On Friday I went along to Queen Square and saw my vestibular physiotherapist, Jan-who is finishing her rotation, so next time I will see someone else. I told her about the surgery, and the problems I had on Thursday. She was great; she had me do some walking and some of the exercises, and I was surprised to find that I hadn't regressed as much as I thought. I learned that if I don't do all the exercises at least twice a day-and if I don't walk at least 30 minutes a day-I will start to lose the balance that I have worked so hard to regain. That is how the brain's neuroplasticity works: use it (often) or lose it.

I've been weeping from the pain, and the inability to sleep because I'm conscious of the fact that I have to stay on my back. No turning over at all, that will mess up everything (and hurt. I know from experience). So all weekend I was quite incapacitated, as well as bored rigid. I wanted to start doing laundry, and start cleaning the house. City air: dust just piles up everywhere. And I would walk past the vacuum cleaner and be very, very tempted. I would also think about what would happen if I overdid anything: I would be back in the hospital, having another operation to repair the damage. No thanks- I will leave the place dirty until I'm cleared to get back to normal.

I had a few appointments this week, and I went for my infusions yesterday-and those went really well. But one of the things I did was tell myself off. I told myself to get over myself and not be so precious. I was, after all, extremely lucky. I am, after all, extremely lucky. For years I was a victim of a narcissistic fantasist, a petulant and infantile doctor who had a careless disregard for the health and safety of his patients-and who treated his patients like garbage. That, of course, is Matt Buckland, the nasty piece of work who probably hits his wife, beats his kids and kicks the dog. When he bounced me out of the clinic two weeks before surgery last year, I was furious, because he did it to be vindictive, and he wanted to create chaos and pain. Instead, he did me the biggest favor he could have done, because the team at the Royal Free stepped up-and this team is so much better than Buckland and his playmates. The difference is dramatic, and I am now finding out that so much of what I was told at the Royal London is a pack of lies.

I'm a lot healthier than I was led to believe. I'm a lot healthier than the team at the Royal Free expected, given the information passed to them by the Royal London. After so many years, I now have a team I can trust.

I guess I am coming out of the dark-six years of pain, sickness, loss, trauma-and I'm lucky that the team at Barts and the London didn't kill me. They nearly did, but I must be tougher than I thought. And-I can look at my diary and see empty spaces, rather than appointments at one hospital or another nearly every day (and sometimes twice in a day).

I did say that I am cautiously optimistic. I also said that I am cynical, and those qualities are probably the ones that kept me fighting for survival. What can I say? I'm on the road back to recovery, and the road back to having a life-something I didn't have for the last six years. Pass the Kettle Chips.

Sliced and Diced, diced and sliced -- and re-boobed

I've got new boobs. Well-after nearly two weeks, I should say hello first. So-hello--and I've got new boobs. Was it worth all the pain? Was it worth the hospital stay from Hell? I'll tell you in six months, when all the swelling should (allegedly) go down.

It truly was the hospital stay from Hell. I decided that it was just so aggravating, trying to email, and blog-all on my phone, which just didn't want to cooperate. So I thought I would wait until I got back to my little shoebox home in North London-and I nearly didn't. Read on...

The surgery took place on Wednesday, the 26th. I was told I would be first on Mr. H's list; instead, I was last on the list. I wasn't taken to the operating theatre until after 6pm-and I was really nervous, since they started operating at 8:30 AM. So I wondered if they would be so rushed that they would screw it up, in a big hurry to finish-as if there was a taxi outside with the meter running. I mentioned that to the anesthetist, who reassured me that Mr. H and his colleague, Mr. S, have a lot of stamina and are well used to operating for many hours at a time. Of course: it's the NHS, like a conveyor belt, one operation after another after another. I was told that I should feel grateful, since many operations had to be cancelled due to lack of beds.

Ewww...I'd been fasting since before midnight the night before-and that was fine, because the food was so bad I didn't miss not eating. I thought it was really toxic waste on the plate. In fact, I wondered if I turned the lights out whether or not it would glow in the dark-or perhaps start moving. So, needless to say, I got friends to come and visit and bring food. Most of the patients on the ward did that; there was always the smell off pizza in the evenings. I have to say I was tempted.

I woke up in the recovery room-and I was terrified, because I was completely disoriented, and it reminded me of the way I felt after the gentamicin poisoning. I kept saying that I was disoriented-and it was clear that I was panicked. So a doctor came over to me and told me that it was a common reaction to the anesthesia, and that I would be fine in a couple of minutes. I remember saying that I couldn't be in Hell, because everyone was wearing white. Everyone laughed-and I asked for pain medication. I felt like someone had hit me in the chest with a speeding train.

So here is the short version of my two weeks in Hell. Mr. H. didn't come to see me either before or after the operation. I asked the registrar why-and she told me that consultant surgeons always send their registrars, unless there is a serious problem. They only stop by if the patient has private coverage-so, if I had either paid for the surgery myself or had an insurance company to pay for me, I would have had at least one visit by Mr. H. Welcome to the NHS-that doesn't feel very fair.

Some of the nurses would get my vote for Nurse Ratched of the year. They were that nasty-but then, I had a few things to say when some of them were not wearing gloves, or ignoring the directive to wear surgical gloves when dealing with the chest port. So, they weren't happy when I criticized their work-or, in some cases, non-work. In fact, there was only one nurse who was any good, and did things by the book-and actually seemed to care about her patients. She was great; I would not give the other ones the time of day-or the job. I couldn't help wonder why some of these people wanted to be nurses. They sucked.When I was told I was finished with the antibiotics last Monday night, and that I could go home on Tuesday, I wanted to do cartwheels down the hall. But-I couldn't lift anything, I couldn't raise my arms-and I've never been able to do a cartwheel. So much for that.

On Tuesday afternoon, the ambulance that had been booked to take me home was really, really late. They got it completely wrong, and I ended up sitting in the transport lounge, waiting for transport and making a real pain in the ass of myself. I kept getting up and asking where my drivers were. The guy at the counter kept shrugging his shoulders. Hmmm... and when the ambulance drivers finally arrived, they got lost.

Yes, that is what I said: they got lost. All they had to do was go straight, turn left, go up the hill, turn right and they would have been there. Bob's your uncle-except when he isn't. They took me on a tour of London that lasted 45 minutes (it should have taken ten- fifteen in traffic). I had this feeling that I might be in this ambulance for hours. When I finally got to the door, they blamed the GPS for giving them the wrong directions. It was the GPS-not stupidity. Right?

I stayed in on Wednesday, taking the Tramadol they gave me before I left. It didn't do a lot for the pain, and when I had to return to the hospital on Thursday for my infusions, I found myself crying in pain. Boo hoo. What can I say? I'm a crier. In fact, I was sobbing at one point. So I'm a sobber.

Friday, Saturday and yesterday I just hibernated. I told myself that I was having an existential crisis. Actually, I was just feeling very sorry for myself, and wondering why I put myself through not one, but two operations. What was I thinking?

I'm nearly at three years since the mastectomy-and three years since a very narrow escape. But, every time I looked in the mirror-when I forced myself to look at my chest in the mirror-I saw a sunken chest, prominent ribs, and a huge scar that ran from armpit to armpit. Every time I would try to wear some of my nice, skinny t-shirts I would notice-total flatness. They didn't fit. And all I could think when I looked in the mirror was: shit. I had cancer. I was lucky. I'm okay now. Only a lot flatter.

Would I recommend the surgery to anyone who just wanted to have bigger boobs? Hell, no. Screw the vanity, the pain just isn't worth it. As for reconstruction after cancer-I'll have to wait until the swelling goes down, everything is healed, and I have a good look at the end result. Then-I'll tell you!

I got really depressed after I left the hospital. There was so much pain. Apart from that, I'm not allowed to carry anything heavy for the next six weeks. Of course, I asked the registrar to define "heavy" (I'm such a pain). She said no lifting the vacuum cleaner, no stretching too far, don't do anything to mess up the work or I would have to have another operation to fix the damage. Yuck. So in six weeks I will have dust bunnies eight feet high. I'll need a mask and a flame thrower just to get into the apartment. Ewww.....So no cleaning floors, either. And now it will be two weeks since the surgery on Wednesday evening, I'm bored, my apartment will soon begin to grow all kinds of interesting (and probably unidentifiable) things...so I did laundry. And I was careful. I also walked for an hour. Boy-after more than a week of not walking anywhere, that was kind of difficult, but I knew I had to do it.

I did try to cheer myself up by thinking of funny things (I highly recommend that as part of getting yourself out of a depression). I thought about Mr. H, the surgeon, and the fact that he couldn't be bothered to at least stop in the room to see if I was still breathing. But he's the boob architect. He is the man people go to post-mastectomy for reconstruction. I wonder if he gets bored, seeing all those boobs, day in and day out. It isn't like anyone has anything spectacular. Once you've seen one, you've seen them all: different shapes and sizes, but a boob is a boob is a boob-unless maybe someone has two nipples on one side, or there is a nipple that resembles sprouting broccoli. Wouldn't that be different.

Then I thought about proctology. No idea why-I think that my annual colonoscopy is coming up over the summer, and, let me tell you, I don't know how anyone could ever like anal sex. I have had the hosepipe shoved up my ass, and I have been able to look at the inside of my intestines. So what? Nothing unusual, but bloody painful. And who would ever want to be a proctologist anyway? Some weirdo with a thing for assholes (and I mean that literally).

This random thinking had me smiling, and I'm feeling better. But - boobs? Proctologists?

Just saying...

Alas, poor Easter bunny...

I've never spent Easter weekend in the hospital before-so there's a first time for everything. And-surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. I've been freaking out all day, too. More surgery. Damn!

I was going to save my chocolate bunny for Easter Sunday, since I'll be stuck here. However, since I already bit off the bunny's head, I figured-what the hell, I decapitated him, so I might as well finish the job.

I highly recommend a Lindt's chocolate bunny if you're under stress (it was delicious).

My surgeon came to see me and have me sign release papers-just in case. I've seen that all before-so I signed, and after he left I snuck out to Starbucks. How convenient-it's just across the road. Had my Kettle Chips (last week), had my chocolate Easter bunny (I felt so guilty about biting off his head-I just had to eat the evidence), and I had my Starbucks (grande cappuccino, extra shot, lots of chocolate on top, if you're interested. Or not).

I'm good to go-and this is only the second time I've ever blogged from my phone. I'm becoming a true techno-geek.

I'll write again soon-possibly full of painkillers. I hope. Either that-or Jack Daniel's. One lives in hope.

Nearly at the finish line

I'm in the hospital-and there's no wifi, so I'm writing this on my phone. I got this little warning-the browser isn't supported, and weird things might happen. So if it suddenly turns into hieroglyphics-or repeats itself- I'm not having an Essex moment. Truly!

Last week I was getting everything ready for my admission-which suddenly happened on Wednesday.  My friend came down from the north- and thank goodness for that, because she's taken over my kitchen. This is a good thing, because most of the meals aren't things I recognize. I keep looking at the plate to see if things are moving-and I poke the stuff to see if it pokes back. So far-no. I don't know what I would do if something moved-probably whack it with my shoe.

It was one disaster after another: I raced to the hospital and was told I would have to wait four hours for a bed-then I was told to sit and wait in a corner-facing a wall. Well-you know I wasn't having any of that! So I had a frank and honest-and loud-discussion with the nurses, and twenty minutes later a bed magically appeared. There were bloody bandages in the bin in the bathroom-and it took a lot of complaints-and twenty four hours for the bin to be emptied. The room was dirty. But the bed was clean, so that was something. As far as I know, I haven't caught anything.

Medications were delayed, antibiotic infusions were screwed up-and I felt like screaming. Plus, I didn't expect to be in here until next week-so you can imagine how royally pissed off I am. I got so frustrated that today I didn't go outside to walk. I cried. Still-on Wednesday at this time-if it all goes according to plan-I will be back in the room and asking for morphine-or something strong. Or-they can just give me a bottle of Jack Daniel' and a straw. Whatever.

I did bring a Lindt's chocolate Easter bunny with me. I thought I'd wait until next week-since I might be here for Easter Sunday. I really like Lindt's chocolate-and the bunnies are all wrapped in gold colored paper, and have little bells around their necks (obviously I need to start getting out more).

So I looked at my bunny-and I bit his head off. Now I have a headless chocolate bunny-but he was delicious.

More later-if they don't kill me off, that is.

Tick Tock: it's the final countdown

Only ten days to surgery-and I don't know why I am so anxious, because this should (hopefully) be the last operation I will have for a long, long time. But I am still worried, even though my surgeon is excellent. I truly am hospital phobic-and for very good reasons (obviously).

I did try to calm down by watching the CNN coverage of Super Tuesday. Oops-that turned out to be a bad idea. I know I said that people who vote for the Donald must be redneck dipshits-but, hey, there seem to be an awful lot of redneck dipshits coming out of the woodwork. It's really discouraging.

So then I decided-after the Donald got seven states, which just amazed (and horrified) me-that anyone who votes for Trump should be horse-whipped. Please, people, really: on what alternate universe would Donald Trump EVER be capable of taking the job as President of the United States, the most powerful country in the world (at least, for now. He will destroy that, clearly-not to mention our reputation abroad, which is already suffering).

What is Donald Trump besides a total putz?? People will be emigrating by the thousands. No, by the millions. I'll go first.

I'm getting such a lot of stick over here. This is a country that had the odious Tony Blair in power-and now David Cameron, who is equally odious. Of course, we had Bush. Enough said. And (I like the word "odious"; it fits politicians perfectly, don't you think?) the equally odious Obama. Did he do anything besides take credit for Bin Laden (credit for something that had nothing to do with him at all) - and go golfing while the bank crisis was in full tilt?

I'm almost glad to be going into the hospital. I'll practice my English accent (ewww. Horrors-necessity, not desire!). I might just pretend to be mute.

I might still start packing. If everything goes to shit in November, I will be moving to Iceland. I went to Reykjavik many years ago-but it was closed.

I'm wandering around like a lost fart. Still anxious-not sleeping well, and that is reflected in the fact that I have cleaned my kitchen twice in the last week. I'm sure I will clean it again (in the middle of the night) before I go in for the operation. That's fine; I'll need the rest.

I wonder if I can get Kettle Chips in Iceland...and Starbucks. Obviously.

Greetings from the land of sheep shaggers

After two weeks of resting my leg (ouch. Ouch. Boo hoo. Ouch. Nothing else to say in two weeks) I am finally okay and ready to resume life. But-wait, there have been some interesting developments.

My friend lives in Dublin. She loves reading this blog-says it is hilarious, and most people over there don't have any love for the English, so she's been passing every post to her Irish friends. (goody). However-and there is a however-she now has an English partner. It's bad enough that he's English-but he is from (horror of horrors) Essex. So he read the blog and has taken exception to my taking the mickey out of the Brits. He has taken particular exception to my laughing about Essex. Well, keep reading, and see if you don't agree with me.

First of all, he said that not all Englishmen have very small willies. I wonder how he knows this...I did ask, but got no reply. Obviously, he's been checking out every other British male he can find. It reminds me of something one of the French cabinet ministers said about British men: she said they're almost all gay. Well--so how does he know about other men's willies? And he also said that he is highly offended by my comment about sheep shaggers. He states that most sheep shagging is done by Albanians and Greeks. And how does he know this? I asked. He just does. What a plonker. So, if you are reading this and are Albanian or Greek, I was given this load of crap by a twit from Essex-and just the fact that he is from Essex means that anything he says is probably untrue. He's from Essex; he can barely walk and talk at the same time, so don't take anything he says as gospel. I don't know any Albanians, but I do know that the Greeks have enough problems (financial screw-ups, defaults on loans, and, of course, thousands of migrants stuck there with no place to go because none of the "partner" countries want to take them) without some Essex twit offering pronouncements when he probably can't even spell Albania. Or Greece. Or Essex.

I have to say that my friend stood up for me-and I told her to keep him away from my blog, because he is a total ass. I also said that I thought she had more taste and better judgment. Ewwww....Essex.

Having said all that, now I have to tell you how I finally got over this pain in the leg and knee. I spoke with my friend Dani, who is also a very fine acupuncturist. She told me to hobble over to the train and come out and see her. And where does she live (and practice)? Errr...Essex. But-she isn't from there originally. She isn't English, either. And I have been checking over the past fifteen years to make absolutely certain that she has not contracted the British Braindead Disorder. So far, she is still fine. But I do wonder how long she will stay that way.

So, last Thursday I did the three hour journey to Essex - and about 15 needles later, I began to feel a bit better. I'll go back again in April-it'll take that long to recover from three hours there and three hours back.

I was struck by the fashions: all neon and spandex (and that was just the men). I nearly fell over going back to the station as I looked at people who had their huge guts hanging over spandex pants, and clearly thinking they looked terrific. They looked something, that was for sure.

I always look in shop windows-especially boutiques-because they can tell you a lot about the people who live in the area. And I turned the corner to walk down the hill to the station-and there it was.

Hanging in the window of this little shop (exclusive, I was told by someone near me, who looked at my jeans, sniffed, and walked away) and saw-a neon and spandex catsuit. It wasn't just neon: it looked like someone had thrown a can of paint on the top and allowed it to drip down. In blues, and greens, and neon urine yellow, as well as bile green. It was hideous, and I started laughing. Now, looking down I saw a pair of gold sneakers (called trainers here, but still gross, whatever anyone calls them). Gold sneakers. And it gets worse.

Right in the middle of the window, staring out at me, was an envelope clutch. It was just about large enough for someone's phone, keys, lipstick, tissues, can of mace...and smack across the front was: a pair of lips. That is what I said: a huge pair of bright red lips-covered with (sit down) glitter and sequins. Pardon? Yep. Essex fashion, along with the bleached hair and abundance of cheap (not gold) neck chains. Glitter. Sequins.

I stood there, transfixed, and thought that the only thing that would make it even more tacky would be if the lips lit up. I waited-but I was disappointed, because nothing happened. But I laughed so hard I got a pain in my side. In fact, I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself-not that anyone here would know the difference. I laughed all the way to the station.

You know, I think there are two parts to Europe (and we are still part of Europe-while everyone is fighting for the referendum to either take us out or keep us in). One is what everyone calls the "Continent": France, Italy, Spain, etc. And the other part is Britain: the Incontinent.

It hasn't escaped me that today is Super Tuesday. I'm as gobsmacked at those hideous outfits last Thursday as I am that anyone would even entertain the thought of putting Donald Trump in the White House. Trump? He would need an extra room just for his hair.

I first thought that only rootin' tootin' gun totin' redneck dipshits would vote for Trump. But-it seems like even normally intelligent, thinking people are looking at him and thinking he would make a great President.

What?????? I am already taking a lot of stick over Trump (as I did over Bush); God forbid he ever got elected, I would never go home. Ewww. And I'm not the only American who feels that way. In fact, I would have to leave here because the abuse would be too much. In fact, I would have to find another place to live-me, and millions of Americans who would make big tracks out of the USA.

 Don't come here-that would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire (of Hell). Syria isn't really recommended- but- I hear that Iceland is very nice in November.

I spy with my little eye...

I spy with my little eye, something beginning with C. Umm...got it. It's Cretin. Or, in this country, the plural: cretins. They are absolutely everywhere. Last week one of them nearly shoved me down a set of concrete steps because he was in a rush. He was passing me, and called me a silly cow. So I told him he was a fat, ignorant bastard. But - the fat, ignorant bastard was in too much of a hurry to do anything about it except glare at me. And I held up the crutch with the intent of slamming it into him if he even dared to try something.

That was the only confrontation I had since I last posted. And I didn't even use the F word. Not once. Well, good for me, I learned my lesson with the Neanderthal outside the hospital two weeks ago. Of course, I have called a few people inbeciles...but not fucking imbeciles, so that doesn't really count. I am watching my temper-discretion is the better part of being punched in the face, or stabbed in the chest. I quite like having my nose in the middle of my face-and I have gone through a lot of pain with this chest; in a few weeks I will have the final reconstruction, changing the current implants for permanent ones. I don't want anyone to screw that up (plus, being stabbed in the chest would be a little bit painful, I suspect).

I just keep reminding myself that many-perhaps most- of the current crop of idiots are descended from thieves, rapists, murderers and lunatics-and that is just the royal family-so what behavior can I reasonably expect from them? And what can you expect from (biological-maybe) males whose idea of a great night out is to go to the pub and drink themselves comatose, then go out and shag anything that is still moving: their sisters/mothers/daughters-anyone. No wonder there is so much inbreeding in this country. They say that Britain is where men are men-and the sheep are nervous. Just go out into the countryside; all the sheep stand with their backs to the wall and have their legs crossed. No wonder sheep go around in packs. But, since most of the men are probably the size of pinheads, the sheep are probably pretty safe anyway. Poor sheep. Glad I'm a vegetarian. I'll bet that at Christmas even the turkeys aren't safe.

I also keep reminding myself that the average IQ in this country is 80-but I think it's more like 40. And my friends (yes, I do have British friends-but they don't know about this blog, or I would have been beaten up by now) are either the exceptions, or the braindeads are in the minority. It does feel like a very large minority- and I hope it isn't the majority.

I still believe that the majority of people in this country are decent, polite (ish), and reasonably kind. But I also believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, so what do I know? Oh, yes- and I believe that the television works because it has little people running around in it. And the Brits say that we Americans don't have a sense of humor (or irony).

I've done all the things I was supposed to do since I last posted-except go to the gym. I struggled. For some strange reason I woke up one morning with severe pain in my left leg-and I do mean severe. I could barely walk, and I tried to find out why-with no success. So I thought about the symptoms (easy: pain, pain and more pain), and I hobbled around and decided that I didn't break anything, or I wouldn't be able to walk at all. So I consulted the Great God Google-I went to some of the education sites (like the National Institute of Health). On a hunch I checked out the vitamins I'm taking. I know that Tamoxifen has side effects (because I've experienced them over the last two and a half years). But vitamins? Could it be possible?

I am-or, rather, I was-of the school of thought that maintains that if a little is good, a lot is probably better. So, instead of taking a little vitamin D3 I took a lot. By a lot I mean 10,000 units a day (rather than a more normal dose of, say, 2000). Vitamin D isn't water soluble, and remains in the liver-and too much can cause all kinds of problems (including muscle, joint and nerve pain). Oh, bugger (and there is another pound for the swear box).

I did this research last Monday, and stopped taking the D3 just to see if stopping would have any effect. I didn't do anything else, really. I mostly rested my leg when I didn't have to walk. And today the pain is beginning to subside. So that's another lesson learned the hard way (for me, what other way is there?).

We just got through another Valentine's Day, and I feel like I need to mention that, because I'm sure a lot of women are flying solo, just like me. I'm happily divorced, and the longer I stay solo the more I realize that I no longer have to live with someone snoring in my ear, or nicking the duvet-or leaving the toilet seat up (yes, that is a pain-especially in the middle of the night, when I sometimes got up to go and got a nasty surprise). And I had to contend with his mother, who hated that he had married an American in the first place. She once told me that English women darn their husbands socks when they have holes in them. I turned around and said that if he wants his socks mended-rather than buying new ones, like we Americans do, because we aren't stupid, he should sew them himself, since he isn't crippled. That didn't go over too well-but I let her know that I couldn't care less what she thought. That is how to handle the mother-in-law from Hell.

Did you know that numerous studies have shown that married men live longer-and so do single women? Now there is something to ponder!