Osama Bin Dickhead rides again

I haven't died (happily) or been kidnapped by aliens (sadly. At least it might be somewhat entertaining). I've had to deal with the deranged, fake Muslim, filthy (the words soap and water clearly don't appear in his dictionary), foul-mouthed, obnoxious, threatening, total asshole neighbor from Hell. Either he is off his meds or he has worked out that the restraining order I took out against him has now lapsed. He's at it again.

For a couple of weeks, he has been screaming obscenities at me from outside the building-and from outside his front door, upstairs where I can't reach him-not that I would want to, because I don't know how far his bugs can jump, and I'm not planning on finding out, ever. Add this to the constant drilling and hammering at all hours of the day and night (perhaps he's been building an extension. For six years).

Now, we have had a horrendous heatwave; the temperature hovered between an unbearable 85F and 100F-closer to 100. And this country is so backward that the only places with air conditioning are large supermarkets, banks, and (hopefully-for the tourists) the big hotels. I've kept the windows open, but there hasn't been much wind, either. So I have been one big bag of sweat, and I don't like the heat to begin with. So you can imagine how grumpy I was anyway. I showered a lot. I also swore a lot, although it was summer (ish), so there wasn't anything I could do about it, except look forward to October.

Add this to the fact that I didn't just mangle my arm, or have a hairline fracture-but I also fell hard enough to (as subsequent xrays showed) fracture a small bone in my wrist. When I mangle myself, I really, really mangle myself. And for the past seven weeks I have been pretty immobile, arm-wise. Actually, I have been using my arm, since I'm right-handed, and a total klutz with my left arm-but I haven't told anyone. Much.

So Osama has been calling me "Walking Dead" and a lot of other things which are really too disgusting to mention. I finally called him the "walking Brain-dead", told him that he is an asshole and a lunatic, and told him that if he had any balls at all he would come downstairs and face me and call me names while I'm standing in front of him. Silly me: one smack and I would be on the floor. But I said that anyway. Then, on Saturday the 10th I called him Osama Bin Dickhead. Osama, I said, you are not a Muslim. You are a fake, a fraud, a deranged lunatic, an insult to Muslims everywhere. Come on, dickhead, face me or be a coward forever. I called him a shithead and a gutless coward.

Did he come downstairs? No, of course not. He kept screaming at me from upstairs, just outside his front door, and then started screaming in his native language (is there a language known as asshole? I'll have to google it).  I kept hoping that he would have a heart attack, or an aneurysm-or, even better, spontaneously combust. Then at least I might have the chance of someone normal moving in. But no, he went inside and slammed his door.

That was on the 10th. I was already distressed, partly from the extreme heat, partly from the pain in my arm, and partly because the next day was the fifteenth anniversary of 9/11. That got to me, as it does every year. I remembered back 15 years; I recalled exactly where I was, and how long it took to be able to call home to see if everyone was okay. I knew that my very closest friend worked in the next building to Tower 2- and I finally reached her the next day, at 4AM New York time. I woke her up. When she realized how hard it had been to actually get through, she stopped being annoyed. And everyone I was worried about was all right.

It's back to being cool and damp, and I'm glad for the change in the weather, because every change affects my balance. I had to force myself to walk in extreme heat, and you can understand why summer is my least favorite season. I personally would like to abolish summer altogether. If I could find a place with temperature hovering around 20C (68F), sunny but with low humidity, and rain only at night when I'm sleeping, I would move there tomorrow. And so would everyone else!

The 9/11 disaster, the memorial service (I got to see part of it-on US television, because the Brits didn't cover it), I didn't expect the black dog (depression) to come out of nowhere and bite me. But-it bit me so hard I thought it would rip my face off. I sat and watched the horrors unfold, and my husband turned around and said that the US deserved it. He actually said that. We deserved a massive terrorist attack on our soil, so we would know how it felt, and because we were so arrogant that we never thought anyone would go after us. I was in tears, and he was-just plain evil. Cold and evil.

9/11 was the day that I finally decided that I'd had enough of this unfeeling bastard, and that I was going to walk, even if I had to walk with only the clothes on my back. That was the final nail in the coffin of my miserable marriage. So I won't forget that day-probably ever.

I finally have been able to beat the crap out of the black dog and send it packing-but it took nearly three weeks to do it, which is something of a record for me. I walked, I wept, I walked some more, I hibernated and would only get out of bed to go for hospital appointments-and I went to the hairdresser and got my hair cut. I figured out what was bugging me, and that some things I can't change, so I need to learn to let them go.

Letting go has never been something I've been able to do. I can hold a grudge forever. I might eventually learn to forgive, since I know that those of us who don't forgive are the ones who suffer the most. But I never, ever forget.

I decided that watching something funny would probably put me in a better frame of mind. Humor always seems to help, so I took myself to see the new Bridget Jones film yesterday. I recommend it highly; I laughed so much in parts that I forgot that I was depressed.

I recommend humor. Funny movies. Walking off depression (without falling over, obviously). Daydreaming about killing your enemies. And, of course, I highly recommend Kettle Chips. I should buy stock in that company...

Penis Envy

It's now five weeks since my fall - and I'm so happy that it's five weeks down the road.  No kidding, it was that serious. In fact, I was in so much pain that I followed directions : no moving my arm unless I  had to,  no lifting,  no sleeping.  You get the idea. 

I was very careful,  although I did need to use my right hand hand for just about everything. This was usually accompanied by swearing that was so loud that it was probably heard in Paris. 

I have spent a great deal of time trying very hard to stay out of the way of the local obnoxious dimwits - with varying degrees of success,  as you know.  But these five weeks have provided the unassailable proof that the dimwits are in the majority,  not the minority.  I know this from painful experience: very painful. 

I've listened to the babbling of many, many braindeads - and for some reason it doesn't matter so much any more. I've had a lot of time to consider the evidence,  and the evidence tells me that the Brits  (and just about everyone else) have a deep seated problem:  Penis Envy. 

That's what I said: penis envy.  They want what we've got: drive,  determination,  the will to work hard instead of expecting everyone else to do everything for us. Ambition,  intelligence,  talent.  And, of course,  we've got balls. They don't. 

I'm living in a balls - free zone. I have more balls than anyone around here. I'm surprised that the population is so large. How do they do it? Test tubes? 

No wonder I fell over and didn't stop myself this time. My body may be in Dipshit Central, but my head and heart are in New York. 

Tears on my Pillow

Good song title, that. And that's what my week was like: yucky.

I had the stitches removed on Monday- and that wasn't the lowest point of the week. It was painful, my arm looked horrible (and felt worse)- but the worst day of the week was Wednesday.

Wednesday was the sixth anniversary of the gentamicin. It was six years ago that someone else's incompetence destroyed my life. Trust me when I tell you that I haven't forgotten - and I'm struggling with forgiveness six years later. I'm getting there-but it's slow going.

Wednesday was also the day that a DexaScan showed that I've got osteoporosis.  Tamoxifen,  cancer, both of these are contributing factors. So now I've got something else to fight. Oh joy.

What if my life was easy? Hmm...would it be less complicated?  Of course-but I wouldn't have so much to write about.  I'd probably be bored rigid. I'm okay with that.

I did join the human race yesterday: I now have a tablet,  so I can stop swearing at my ancient computer and swear at the IPad instead.  If you want to find me, just follow the swearing.

But this is so cool . I just need to get used to it. And not drop it. Or get frustrated and throw it out the window. I wasn't going to buy anything new-just in case I didn't live long enough to use it.

Oh me of little faith.

Karma's A Bitch

If it's the laws of Karma that are reaching up and biting me on the face, I must have been an axe murderer-or worse-in a previous life. Personally, I prefer to think that I had a few moments of absolute clumsiness-hopefully, temporary clumsiness. That is why you haven't heard from me in two weeks.

I went to see Ghostbusters (two weeks ago today), and enjoyed the references to the original. I felt like reminiscing for a day or two-and did get a few good laughs out of the reboot. When you are one of the few bright lights in a land that seems filled with the Walking (Brain)Dead, you really need some laughs. So that was pretty good, and I did my due diligence the next day (a couple of tests, and now I am done for another year). Thursday I went to see my friend Dani, and that was good, too. I was on a roll, wasn't I? Err...no, I wasn't. Friday happened.

I didn't get much sleep on Thursday night-insomniac that I am and have been all my life-so I was really knackered when I got a text from my friend Georgina. She is worse than I am when it comes to not sleeping. She asked me to come around for coffee. It was 6:30 am, I'd already had my first cup of the day. So I went next door, and that was my biggest mistake: I wasn't looking at the ground, I was joking with her-and she has a step in front of her house that is loose. I hit the damned thing-no elbow crutch, and it would not have done any good anyway, because I went (as they say over here) ass over tit, put my right arm out, and hit a rusty metal strip that is right outside her glass door. To add insult to injury, the metal was filled with ant powder, because we have ants coming in from the garden.

I was too stunned to swear. My arm was cut from wrist to elbow, the inside of my arm was on the outside, and believe me when I say that the pain was excruciating-and so was the blood. I thought that my friend was going to faint. I thought that I was going to faint. It was horrible. So she called for the paramedics, and what followed was a nightmare. The ambulance arrived, the two men took me to the nearest hospital-which wasn't the Royal Free, but was the Whittington. I was there for nearly five hours. Then I finally got sewn up: seven stitches in my arm, four steri-strips beneath (we used to call them butterflies when I was a child. Whatever. All those things were holding my arm together). And-I've got a hairline fracture which they left, because I needed the stitches. This was the Whittington. I'm lucky that I still had my arm when I left; it was the Whittington. I'm surprised they didn't try to amputate.

So that was my week and a half: taking pain killers, not using my arm (using a sling), and feeling very sorry for myself. I kept swearing because I should have been looking down at the ground, not up at my friend, and cracking jokes. Even though the hospital doctor reminded me that I was lucky I didn't go through the glass door, and lucky that I didn't break anything (anything important, that is), I still felt like a total klutz. I had to go to my GP to get pain killers, too-but everyone there knows me, and the nurses kept telling me that everyone has moments of clumsiness, I'm not alone in falling over. I'm lucky, it's just a huge scar that I will have up my arm to remind me to be more vigilant in future. Etc. Etc. But I still felt pretty awful. I realize how controlling I am!

That was what I got from this awful experience: I am controlling. I need to be perfect. Well-so much for that!

I had to keep going back to see the nurse, to have the wound checked and cleaned, and have the dressing changed. In the middle of this-last week-I also had to go to the Royal Free for my immunoglobulin infusions. I thought there would be jokes-but no, everyone was sympathetic. Thank goodness for that.

I've done only what I had to do since this whole thing happened. Yesterday I had to go back to the doc's to have the stitches removed. I've got a huge - about 4 inches - gash down my arm, and it looks pretty nasty. So, I will be wearing long sleeves for the foreseeable future. I won't make the same mistake twice (at least, I hope I won't!); I'll remember to be more careful, especially when I see my arm in all its glory.

So now it's back to business as usual. I've got more appointments scattered around, and I've been hibernating in distress for the last eleven days. Now I'm figuring that I'm not doing myself any favors by staying in and wallowing in self-pity. It could happen to anyone. What have I learned? Well-when you fall down, just get up again. That is it: no feeling gloomy, just get back up again. I've been doing that for the last six years. Actually-tomorrow will be exactly six years since the gentamicin disaster.

Another lesson for me: let it go and don't dwell on it. My first cornerstone of life: life isn't fair. Amen, and tough shit to that.

The doctor in A&E who sewed up my arm told me that it will take six months to heal fully. So what am I going to do in six months?

I'm getting a tattoo.

Hot,wet-and very pissed off

We've been having a heat wave: up to nearly 100F last week. People were dropping like flies. The hospital emergency rooms were filled with the deep-fried, suffering from burns and dehydration. I haven't had broadband, phone-all services were off. It was so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. And what a disgusting idea that is! And how to spoil a perfectly good egg...

When the temperature rises past the 20C-68F- mark, I start to sweat, and my hair frizzes. I look like I have an afro- and, if you want to find me, all you need to do is follow the sweat trail. I leave droplets. I also get very short-tempered, and I'm like a snapping turtle-and just as slow. Now you know why I like winter so much. I can layer. In weather like this, there is only so much you can take off before you get arrested.

So I only went out to do the hospital things, the doctor things, my walking (very early in the morning, and it was still hot even then. Grrrr....). If I had a large enough refrigerator, I would have climbed in and stayed there until September. Iceland begins to look really, really good right now...

I made a new friend last weekend. I broke my cardinal rule of keeping neighbors at arm's length, and waved at the new person next door as I passed by. But-she is really nice. Georgina is from Belfast originally, and she had some incredible stories to tell about growing up in Northern Ireland. Since it was too bloody hot to go anywhere, I ended up spending my free time sitting out in the shade (not that the shade made a lot of difference. It was still like sitting in a microwave and putting it on high) and swapping stories and jokes. And sweating. And swearing. She could fill my swear box several times over. In an hour.

I still have no broadband, or phone, or television-or wifi on my mobile. Virgin Media. They suck. So I decided to go to an internet café. Now I am taking myself to see Ghostbusters, the re-boot. It will be interesting to see if the cinema has air conditioning. I hope.

That is the update for now. And, by the way, the internet café doesn't even have a fan. So, before I leave a sweat puddle all over the floor, I'm going to the movies.

Yesterday I went to Queen Square to see my physiotherapist. I was told to walk without my stick for two days a week, carefully, at times when there aren't many people around. So in the afternoon, Georgina and I went a couple of blocks to a café for coffee. She is on one of those frames that has a seat, so we must have made a vision of-what,disability?

I got there, I got back, there were a lot of people around, but I did it anyway. And I did fine. After six years, I might be able to soon be off the crutch. I will be celebrating...

Weapons of Mass Destruction

Hold the apocalypse. It's been three weeks since the referendum, and there still is no sign of Armageddon. There's been no great depression (except, perhaps, among the leavers), no people throwing themselves in front of moving vehicles...Cameron is out on his behind and we have a new Prime Minister: Theresa May (or may not), the former Home Secretary. There isn't even a plague. How very boring.

We do, of course, have weapons of mass destruction: politicians. And the media, of course, hacks who are unable (and unwilling) to provide anything that even has a whiff of real, objective news. So who knows exactly what is going on? Good question.

Everything happened really quickly. Cameron is out, May is in, and the big shock is that Boris Johnson is now Foreign Secretary. He will be the butt of all the comedians for some time to come-and the thing is, Boris is no fool. I wouldn't be surprised if he turns out to be really good at his job (I hope). People are saying that he owes Obama an apology-but I think it's Obama who owes everyone an apology. After all, he took a taxpayer-paid holiday over to Britain and threatened us to make sure we all voted to remain in the EU. Obama. What a tool. So glad he is also on his way out the door; now someone else will be left to repair the damage. Hopefully.

And how am I in all this? Well...after awhile all the backbiting and nastiness gets a bit old. With the pound rallying, and the economy being restored (ish), people from both camps are still cursing each other (the remainers are doing most of the cursing. Idiots). Brain-deads are still brain-dead. And obnoxious. And rude. And pig-ignorant (sorry for the insult to pigs. Oink.). Those things never seem to change-except that there seem to be a lot more of them than I thought. The referendum seems to have brought all the brain-deads out from under their rock. Whatever. Pathetic, really.

Oh, yes-me. I'm actually feeling better since I went off Tamoxifen. I am a little apprehensive: I should have less brain fog. I should have fewer episodes of depression and anxiety. And I should have no leg cramps, especially at night. I should find that my hair grows back and my skin texture is better (it's as thin as a Kleenex at the moment). I should sleep better, too. I "should" start feeling normal. But-I have a greater chance of cancer returning. That makes me a little nervous. Well-that makes me very nervous.

It's only been a week since I stopped Tamoxifen. I did speak with Mr. Tan (oncologist) first; he said that I can stop, since I've been on it for three years. But-I've been searching online for answers to this dilemma. I consulted-as I always do-the Great God Google, and found masses of information, both for and against stopping. Now I will be checking with Cancer Care to see what they say. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that stuff. But as far as I can tell at the moment, the difference between staying on the drug and coming off-the re-occurrence of cancer against no cancer-is about 4%. That's okay, as long as I'm not one of the 4%! I'm going to give this a lot more thought. A lot more thought.

Meanwhile, I am going back to the gym. It's been a very long time-so I will start slowly. I will behave myself, too-no smacking idiots with my crutch. Perhaps I'll hit them with a hand weight instead?It works for me...

Beam Me Up, Scotty-there's no intelligent life down here!

I didn't make that up-sadly-but I had it on a t-shirt, my all-time favorite, that I wore until it fell apart (I did wash it, I promise).

Did I sneak into the park on Monday night, when it was nice and dark, to set off fireworks? Hmmm...is the Pope Catholic? Of course I did. And I grabbed a friend to act as lookout. It was very dark-so we used really tiny flashlights. Nearly fell over and broke our necks-but it was an absolute hoot, and needed after the dramas of the government and country falling apart. The next thing would have been to get arrested-fireworks in July are illegal. I think the punishment is death, but I'm not sure. Probably-I'm a foreigner-worse, I'm American. I'll be shot.

The more I see and hear, the more entertaining life is here in Dipshit Central. Everyone is shouting at everyone else.Cameron was pontificating in Parliament this morning-I just caught it on the news, but I thought I would switch off before I threw up.

You look at Parliament, the government ministers, the cabinet-and you know for a fact that there is life after death.

I've taken myself off Tamoxifen-as of July 1st. Did I tell you? If I did, that is one reason why I told you twice: brain fog. It's a symptom of the medicine, not the beginning of dementia. Well, I certainly hope that is the case! There are so many things I don't have, that is one I certainly don't need. And I should know in around six weeks if all the tamoxifen symptoms clear up: brain fog, insomnia, leg cramps, and, of course, everybody's favorite: hair loss. Ugh-I'm so vain! But I was talking with Mr. Tan (oncologist) and he said that after three years on the medication I should be all right. If, God forbid, cancer returns-I'll deal with it, the same way I've dealt with everything else that has gone wrong in my life: with grace, courage, and a lot of swearing and kicking and screaming.

So that is your update for today. No doubt in my mind that someone else will jump ship from the government by tomorrow. By the end of the week, there will be nobody left. Brexit. Sounds like a cereal.