The Rise and Fall of Osama Bin Dickhead

Wouldn't that be a good title for a book...and yes, there is news of the deranged fake Muslim known as Osama Bin Dickhead. But first I want to tell you about the area in which I'm living at the moment, because then you will understand what is really going on.

These apartment blocks (or, blocks of flats, as they call them here) used to be what is known as "sheltered housing". I think the equivalent in the US would be "care homes"? They were for people who were over 65, and who needed more support and a greater amount of care than they would get in the community. There was a warden on site, and the tenants would be visited every day, just to make sure they hadn't popped their clogs during the night (I understand that creates quite a smell).

The year before I moved here (that would be 2009), the minimum requirement was lowered to 45, the warden was removed, the old people who already lived here (many of them in their 80s and 90s, many with various degrees of dementia) were allowed to remain. But as they either died or left (for whatever reason), they were replaced by younger people who were able to care for themselves (more or less). That is how I got in at the end of 2010-although I could barely walk without falling over, and my vestbular destruction was total, the hospital called Haringey and told them that they needed to find me something before I catapulted myself down the stairs and fractured every bone in my body. Plus, the only way I could get up and down the two flights of stairs in my private accomodation was to do so on my backside (I wish that had made it smaller, but no such luck).

Now the people who are moving in as the old folks snuff it are those with various problems, like severe arthritis, COPD (lung disease), post-liver transplants, and other problems. Unfortunately-with the closure of many of London's nuthouses (excuse me-psychiatric hospitals. What a meanie), people who were detained under the Mental Health Act had to be put somewhere in the community, and so we got a whole bunch of them: alcoholics, drug addicts (and dealers), a few seriously disturbed (but hopefully relatively harmless. Relatively.), schzophrenics, manic depressives, and completely psychotic, deranged, and dangerous nutters like Osama Bin Dickhead. He hasn't lost some of his marbles; I think he had no marbles in the first place.

So crime around this allegedly benign disabled community has increased dramatically, and the borough doesn't seem to care. People call this "God's Waiting Room"-well, maybe for them. I'm not planning on going anywhere anytime soon (until I have more balance and can get myself out of here at warp speed).

That is your background, so you have some idea of what I'm facing on a daily basis. And I try to stay out of everyone's way, because who wants to say hello to someone and then hear a half an hour's moaning about their bad back, bad heart, bad feet, prostate problems, and so on, ad infinitum? What a way to start the day-someone spitting at you (because they have no teeth), and complaining about the state of the world?

Well-one of the first people I met when I moved in was an elderly man called Joe. He's now 85-and has some age-related stuff (so does everyone), is mildly diabetic, but is out every day taking his walk. He's always saying how happy he is to have gotten this far-so I have time for Joe. And this day was different.

It was just after my nipple job-I was taking a walk, he stopped me, and told me that Osama had come up to him, in full battle dress (the turban, the robes, all very, very dirty-so dirty and smelly that it was an early warning sign of impending doom. And abuse), got right in his face, and started shouting (and spitting) abuse about how Joe should be a Muslim, and so he is an evil man who should die soon, and Osama wanted to kill him. He freaked Joe out so much that Joe then went back inside and called his children (he has four). He also called the housing people, who proceeded to tell him that nobody else in the area had complained. Well-that's not just a lie, it's a cosmic sized whopper, since everyone knows that I had to have a restraining order taken against the raving madman Osama. Joe knows this-so do his children.

The outcome? Joe's children started calling the housing manager, and his daughter fired off a very strongly worded (polite but threatening) letter asking how they dare lie about the fact that nobody complained, since they know about the restraining order, and threatening court action if they didn't do something about this lunatic before he hurt someone.

By the way, did I mention that Joe's daughter is a lawyer?

For several days I have heard the usual banging and drilling in the middle of the night (I did say that he has more than a few screws loose), but no verbal abuse. He sees me and he looks at the ground, and keeps going. Success at last. I saw Joe's daughter yesterday, and thanked her-she thanked me for starting the war against the maniac.

And-I've had a birthday. Every day I wake up, open my eyes, open and close my mouth, move my head, arms, legs and say: another day without a stroke. Thank God...

Seriously, though, I have been through so much over the last six and a half years that I am endlessly amazed that I am here at all. Another birthday, another year older, and I've been told by nearly every consultant that I am in amazing health for my age (I do wish they'd leave out the "for your age" bit, though). I celebrated by going back to the Tate (I do like the Tate), having both breakfast and lunch out (I can diet tomorrow. Or just decide to be fat and happy), my friend called me from the US and I was so happy-and so homesick!

I figure that I can be a bit silly (and juvenile), since this is a birthday I wasn't sure I would ever have. So I sang a silly song to myself yesterday. Allow me to share, so you can say-oh, God, how could you!!! It goes like this:
Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday, I'm 103 (but I don't look a day over 85), Happy Birthday to me. Don't say I didn't warn you.

All Hail Kettle Chips.

Tits up and nipples to you, too

Everything went tits up just after I last posted. I did say that the expression means "sideways" or "pear-shaped"- but tits up just about says it all.

The day after I last posted I went for my flu shot. That's what I said: my flu shot. Everyone I know has been down with the flu, so I thought that it might be a good idea to get the jab. Errr...no, it wasn't. Last year I escaped the dreaded lurgy, but this year it hit me two days after I got the shot. Two days! And that was that, I was out for the count. Even worse, this flu was a repeater: just when you thought it was safe to go out, and you were on the mend, bang-the thing came back. And again. I thought I was doomed to be flu-ridden forever.

So, I haven't been online for three weeks (and a bit). I only went out when I had to go, and I managed to change appointments-well, a few- so that I could just stay in bed and be miserable. I finally bored myself stupid and I got up anyway.

Last Wednesday was Nipple Day. That was the day I was due to go to the day surgery unit at the Royal Free, and I was a little apprehensive, but I decided that if I have breasts I should have nipples to go with them. So off I went, and what a day it was.

I got to the hospital just before 7:30 am, and there were at least 50 other patients already there. Seems like everyone was having surgery of one type or another, so I just had to join the queue and wait.After about an hour, a nurse came out, took me into a room and took my blood pressure, and did all that pre-op stuff. Then I got the old plastic ID bracelet-not just one, but two, one on one wrist and one around the ankle. I asked whether they needed the ankle one just in case they removed my arm by mistake. The nurse just looked at me-so I knew that I was in a place where nobody had a sense of humor (feeble or not).

Steve came out at around 8:30 and told me that I was in pole position: first up for surgery. I asked whether that meant that I was in pole position for getting my clothes back on and sprinting out the door. Now, Steve laughs at my jokes (and makes a few of his own), so we get on really well. He said that I would be taken to theatre (operating room) in a few minutes, and would be given a local, rather than be put out completely. It won't hurt much, he said (what a liar).

So I am being wheeled down this corridor, and the place is massive-I really had to go into an operating room, not some little treatment room-and from there things got very interesting really quickly.The room was filled with people, the registrar came over with this massive needle, and he asked if I remembered why I was there. Stupid question, or what? So I said I'm here for Steve's finishing touches: a new set of nipples. Then I told him that if he was there for a poker game,he was in the wrong place.

There was a bit of banter, with me cracking a few jokes and the rest of them laughing-or some reasonable facsimile of laughter, either that or severe stomach pain- and they covered me with a drape. They also covered my face, which worried me a bit. What? I asked whether they were preparing me for embalming or if they were planning on just shoving me into the coffin. And I had this bloody drape over my face for about 40 minutes while they were all having a conversation. Excuse me,but I am the patient, I said. Steve then said that they'd forgotten all about me.

Did they hurt me? Oh, yeah, and the registrar was a real cutie or I would have been tempted to kick him. I couldn't hit (I'm not a hitter anyway) because I was draped everywhere. And anyway, he had a bloody big needle; hitting or kicking someone who's holding both needle and scalpel is not a good idea. I decided to skip the hitting, kicking, biting, swearing (you know I'm joking about this,right?), and just let them get on with it and try not to cough, or I might end up with a nipple next to my ear.

They wheeled me out into the corridor when they were finished, and I heard someone say to bring in the next patient. I said to the nurse who was getting ready to take me back to get dressed that this was like an assembly line. He replied that I had no idea. It really was like an assembly line. Assembly line medicine, NHS ops are us, just cut, sew, bandage one patient, wheel them out, and bring in the next one. A little scary, if you want to think about it. The ancient film "Soylent Green" came to mind- I don't know why, it just jumped into my consciousness when I thought about conveyor belt surgery.

I asked the nurse what they did when something went wrong-he just shrugged and said that I'm fine and can get dressed, have a cup of tea (like that is supposed to fix everything that ails you-even death?), and then hospital transport would take me home. They did that, but the typically inept transport people took more than two hours to get it right (less than three miles,if you want to know how far it was. Or wasn't.).

So that just about catches us up. I had to avoid washing for over a week, and then go back to have the dressings changed. Ah, strip washing, so much fun sitting next to a bowl of water, using a washcloth to wash everything else, managing to wash the bathroom while I was at it-well, at least my bathroom floor is spotless.

Now I am flu-free, finally (I probably am tempting fate by even saying that), the dressings have been removed and replaced by other ones that I can take off to shower (hooray!!! A shower! And I can wash my hair before it gets up and runs away!), and in November I will see Steve again. He reconstructed the right nipple, and the cutie did the left. I did say thanks to them both, and that I will remember who to yell at if one goes wrong.

I am very nearly re-boobed. All that happens next will be the tattooing, and then I will look somewhat normal-although Steve was a little sneaky and made me one size larger than I was before. Never mind: new lingerie, can't be bad.

I've had a really tough time over the last few years-but I have toughened up a lot. And this week all the appointments that I had to change are due, so I'll be spending more time at the hospital than at my little shoebox. I went for my infusions on Thursday, and I told them that I should just move in. Make a flat for me, I said, nothing fancy, just all the mod cons, kitchen (modern and fully stocked, of course), nicely furnished, cable and wifi (definitely), I wouldn't even ask for a year's supply of Kettle Chips.

They just looked at me-that's all, just looked. Some people have no sense of humor. But then, I keep forgetting that I'm living in Dipshit Central. If (God forbid) Mr. Combover gets into the White House in November, everyone I know will be making a quick exit out of the States. Come here. There is still plenty of room in Iceland.

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...