Revenge by Drive-in

I've been talking a lot about the annoyance of not having a working computer-and having to go outside to find one until I can buy another one.

There are no internet cafes (now only places that offer internet access-for a fee-but no coffee, but we still call them internet cafes. Or caffs, if you live in the East End).

Well-there was one just about a mile down the hill from my house. Jamal, who owns it, has a very bad reputation for charging extortionate amounts to fix a computer, for ineptitude, and for having absolutely no training in working with computers. But-one day recently he got his well deserved comeuppance. I saw the scene just after it happened, and I laughed all the way up the hill (I didn't even notice how steep the hill is; I was laughing too hard to care).

Jamal obviously irritated the wrong person. One morning - early, so nobody was in the office yet-someone revved up his old (or someone's old. I hope it wasn't his, or he's in trouble) car, backed up to the opposite curb ( so he was perpendicular to the road), revved it-and drove right into the front of Jamal's shop. He took out the entire front of the building, as well as the solicitors' office next door (solicitors. Hmm..probably deserved it).

There was total chaos for half a day-mostly because people were outside, laughing hysterically. I told you: Jamal isn't exactly popular with the locals. And that was the end of a few months of Jamal.

I actually had a pretty decent week. I had my three-year post-hysterectomy (and, therefore, three year breast cancer free-so far) on Monday. Some friends cooked dinner and opened the champagne. So that was pretty good. Celebrate with champagne. I know several people who would celebrate if they hadn't left it too late.

Tuesday it was the West End, and Jersey Boys, which I have seen three times-still love it, though. West End shows are dreadfully expensive-but, hey, who needs to eat when you can be entertained?
Plus I walked all over town to view computers. By "all over", I mean that my little pedometer app on my phone told me that I'd walked over 14,000 steps that day. No wonder I was knackered!

I saw HP laptops-Toshibas-I saw so many different computers and styles that I ended up with a headache. But I saw the one I really want: Apple. Oh, Apple- I would need to buy a larger keyboard, because the one they supply is puny (and no numeric section). I would need to buy a separate DVD drive-none supplied. But the all-in-one looks like a work of art.

Of course, it is Apple-and has so many other features (plus it is gorgeous) that buying a keyboard and a separate DVD drive aren't that much of a problem. I was all excited.

Then I saw the price, and my little computer love affair was over. It would cost me the equivalent of over $3,000. Eeeek!!  That was painful....

Yesterday I had my infusions, and today I'm going with a friend to see Captain America. I love the stunts and the CGI-and right now all I want is a bang-wallop action film.

So far I am doing okay. Next week I will have a new car to give me a little more stress-but in a good way, as long as I don't take it out, put my foot down (there's a good reason why people used to nickname me leadfoot), and wrap the thing around a tree.

But I'm older and wiser now. Well-I'm older....

Back in the saddle - and what a pain in the butt it's been, too...

I wish I could say that I haven't been online for three weeks because I was whisked away for a dirty weekend-or three weeks-by some fabulous, brilliant, stable, sane, single man - who also has all his own hair and teeth, and is still breathing (always helpful). Alas, no. The ones I find myself meeting don't have their own hair, have rotten teeth (if any teeth at all), are about 90 years old, and have beer guts so big they look like they're giving birth to a T-Rex.

And by the way, all the married ones are simply bloody ugly. Someone clearly wants them-but yuck!!

No, my computer finally expired. Of course, I've got three, and all are dead as the proverbial dodo. My PC is about 14 years old, one laptop is 13 years old, the other laptop is five years old-all dead. If anyone was stupid enough to actually break into this property, they would find three dead computers, a television that is so old that it has a VHS slot on the bottom of the front panel (but it hasn't played a tape since Clinton was President. And it didn't work well then, either). My little mini-stereo is falling apart, and in grave danger of starting an electrical fire-but I've had it since 2005. So I've been lucky. Up until now.

I had three weeks of hospital visits-not every day, but most days-only to be discharged from two clinics because I've been pronounced well ("for my age"-harrumph!). Apart from my antibody replacement every two weeks, I don't need to actually go near anything remotely resembling a hospital until September, when I see whoever is remaining, only to be told-guess what? I'm fine.
AND-I'm not complaining, because it took me "only" six years to reach this point. I thought that I would probably be dead by now-but it looks like I will be around to irritate the hell out of everyone for a very long time to come.

Not bad for any "old girl", am I?

On Wednesday it was eight weeks since the reconstruction, and Steve was very pleased - he told me I can go back to the gym this week. Hooray for that-before my bingo wings grow so huge that I will lift my arm and fracture some innocent passerby's skull. Oops...I've got wings.

This is a time of anniversaries. Wednesday marked eight weeks (so glad it is now and not then!). Tomorrow marks three years since the double mastectomy-so, technically, tomorrow night I will be three years breast cancer free. I kinda feel like I've won the lottery. So I am celebrating by taking myself to the West End to see Jersey Boys again. It's an English cast (again)-and the accents will be nauseating, but the music...it's the music I'm after. I listen to a radio station that plays a lot of the Four Seasons, and their music just lifts my spirits. After the gentamicin, when Dr. Dimples told me that they nearly killed me, and that I would never regain my balance system (destroyed for good, he said), he also told me that one other side effect was permanent deafness. So once again-I'm lucky, because I have my hearing-and my music. Music really helped save me when I was too sick to do anything.

Next month it will be six years since gentamicin-not exactly a happy anniversary-but I have to look back and see just how far determination, willfulness, bloody-mindedness, and just pure anger have gotten me. I'm nowhere near the 90% balance I'm after, but I won't stop until I get there. In September I will undergo all the tests again, so we will see how far I have come after all the hard work.

I think it's time to do something for myself-apart from Jersey Boys. So, I bought another mini-stereo, and I'm awaiting delivery. I would love something that is a decent size, but then I would set it up and have to sleep in the garden. So, a mini-stereo it is. And I will do a pilgrimage to the West End to search for another laptop. I can't continue to go to the library to email and blog. It's awful. The keyboards are always sticky with some mystery (biological? Eww) matter, I could make a four course meal before the things power up (and then they are always crashing). Of course, I could wear gloves and take antiseptic wipes, but I would feel silly (and that is where I am now, and that is what I did, silly or not. Who knows what is on those keyboards? Probably something horrible and contagious).

Even my car is fourteen years old. I kept it after 2010 because it represents freedom to me, and I can now drive short distances; eventually I will be able to take longer journeys, although motorways are (and will remain) out of the question-as will driving under certain conditions (like, at night. I can't even walk at night, let alone drive. I don't want to kill anyone. Well--maybe a few people!!).

So on Monday I went along to my local Volkswagen dealer, test drove a beautiful Polo, and that was it: a brand spanking new VW Polo. Yes, I bought a new car.

And here is the thing:   I'm worth it.

Crashed-but not burned (a little crispy around the edges, though)

Crispy is right. After I posted last time, I had to do some more hospital stuff-and I was knackered. Pooped. Ready for the knackers' yard. I just basically collapsed in a heap. I dragged myself out of bed early in the morning, got dressed, did my usual morning business, and forced myself to walk at least thirty minutes every day. I only did that because I was afraid not to; my balance and eyesight have suffered greatly from the little hospital excursion. I didn't want anything to get worse by sitting around and doing nothing.

So I haven't touched the computer since the last time I wrote. And on Wednesday night it marked five weeks since the surgery. So that was enough; I will have plenty of time to rest after I'm dead (I wonder who said that first? Weird-but clever-don't you think?

I have had more than enough time to rest- and it seems that rest was what I needed. I felt unable to do anything else. Was it depression? Hmmm...no, I don't think so. I didn't see any evidence of the black dog taking a huge bite out of my ass. I think it was just exhaustion. The entire event-a week in the hospital, the toxic waste the people tried to pass off as food, anesthesia, surgery, and pain-plenty of pain-no surprise that my body just decided to stop functioning. So I rested. Until today, when I washed the kitchen floor, cleaned out the refrigerator, and started to tackle the dust bunnies. Well-they told me six weeks post-op, and it has now been five, so I'm close enough to start living like a human being and stop feeling like an invalid. As for whether or not all the pain was worth it: I'll let you know in October, when the last little bits will be finished, and I will be done with the plastic surgeon.

I think I'm giving up on even the remote idea of any more plastic surgery. Love me, love my wrinkles.

I started meeting friends I haven't seen in awhile. My one ex-neighbor, Clara, met up with me on Wednesday, and was telling me that she is doing huge amounts of overtime. Does she get paid for it? No, she does not. She squeezes five days' work into four days. And no time off. Scandalous. On top of that, my old friend Peter (who got married last year) sent me a very mournful text telling me that he was in the office at his desk at 7am, and didn't leave until after 8pm. Plus he had to do Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays. Overtime? Hell, no. And he works for the government. So I was pretty upset on his behalf. I suggested that he just get up and leave at a reasonable hour, and that the more he did the more he would be expected to do-and without being paid for it.

It isn't just the NHS that is treating their employees like serfs. Just witness the recent junior doctor strikes- and I back those a hundred percent. People can't be expected to work fourteen, fifteen, twenty hours a day for seven days a week and not suffer the effects. With doctors, they aren't the only ones who pay the price: it's the patients who are put at risk. Disgusting, really. What country is this again?

So I texted Peter and told him to tell his boss that he needs to leave at four o'clock because he has to go to the dentist. I said: give an academy award winning performance, hold your jaw and look anxious. Well-the anxious part should have been easy. Did he do that? No. Why? He's afraid he will be replaced, and other areas of the government are worse to work in. So I texted him a list of great excuses to either call in sick or need to leave early. Honestly, I wrote, if they are going to treat their employees like crap, they deserve to be lied to, don't you think?

So here we go:

The dentist: you have a toothache that is so bad your head feels like it is going to explode (don't overdo it. Just work yourself up into the pain by thinking about how you are being financially abused). You are having root canal: hold the side of your jaw and think about how bloody painful it would be if you had to have root canal. Ouch.

The vet: you need to take your dog/cat to the vet. Look anxious. Don't kill the poor thing off, just say you aren't sure what is wrong. This works well (but usually only once) with a dog, cat, pot bellied pig, anything bigger than a hamster (although I do know someone who tried it with a hamster. That was very, very tricky).

Whatever you do, don't use a goldfish. That should be obvious, but I remember a workmate years ago who wanted time off and used her sick goldfish as an excuse. Nobody in the office stopped laughing for a week. Did she get time off? Heh-she's lucky she didn't get fired. Goldfish? Really?? The boss asked-before ordering her back to work. And where did she come from? Essex, of course. Where else?

Kill off someone in your family-but make sure they're already dead, because it would be rather rude otherwise (especially if they then up and die for real. You'll feel like a killer).

So: grandparents work really well (if, as I said, they are already dead-and the boss doesn't know). Of course, this will only work four times-unless you change jobs, of course.

I killed off my grandparents several times (it was okay, because they'd been dead since I was a child). I also killed off seven uncles, four godparents, four brothers, three sisters, and a few cousins. I didn't have any of those, of course-but if I had, they would have been dead. Several times over. I killed off my father, too-but he deserved it.

Always make sure you remember who died, or things could get very complicated. I remember one boss telling me that I must be the kiss of death for my family. Oh, well, I said, you'd be surprised. I left there before anybody figured it out. Really, I should have been an actress. Or a serial killer.

So that is it for now. This is Bank Holiday weekend, so if it is a holiday for you, enjoy. I'm not hitting the Kettle Chips. I'm five weeks post-op, still alive and kicking; I'm hitting the wine.

Cheers!

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.