Two weeks ago my people lost their collective marbles and voted an ignorant, bullying racist to be the next president of the United States. Yikes! That was certainly a black Tuesday in American history; since we learned of this absolute catastrophe in the early hours of Wednesday morning, I think the day qualifies as being even more back: Funereal Wednesday, the day the American Dream died-and became as dead as the dodo.
I received some bad news of my own-and that is why I haven't posted for the past two weeks. I've been that freaked out-plus, I had to get into warrior mode and push to get things done. But more about that later.
Trump? Seriously?? What were my people thinking? Were they thinking? And with what? I've lived in a country that is filled with the braindead, inbred, obnoxious, rude-and just simply lucky to be alive and not be speaking German as a first language. How so many of these imbeciles got past puberty is a mystery I will probably never solve. And now my own people vote for Trump: a racist, fascist, misogynistic, xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Muslim, bullying, pathologically lying, scum sucking reptile. And he's very likely to be a rapist and a pedophile, too. Did I miss anything-besides the factthat he is an evil bastard?
Trump led the lowest, dirtiest political campaign in the history of politics-he has no experience and no scruples (just like a politician), he comes across as a redneck ignoramus, and I don't care how much money he has, he is the worst president we will ever have the misfortune to elect-even worse than Bush, and I never thought that I would say that. He and Malaria stood up when the ghastly announcement came, and they were dripping with insincerity and hypocrisy. And Malaria-well, whether you liked Obama or not, you must admit that Michelle actually did things, learned things, wasn't a plastic first lady. But Malaria? She opened her mouth and you could hear that she is too dimwitted to even be considered a halfwit. She thinks Douchebag Donald is a "wonderful man"-sure, Malaria, he's wonderful. That's what they said about Crippen. And Stalin. And Hitler.
Yesterday I gave thanks for a lot of things-and one of them is the fact that, if the Democrats get their act together, we only have to suffer Trump and his merry band of bigots for four years. Hopefully the damage can be repaired by the next - qualified- president. This one is a total a**hole.
And, by the way, this monster has the nuclear codes. If that doesn't scare the crap out of you, let me repeat it: this degenerate monster has the nuclear codes.
What can possibly go wrong??????
I said I got bad news, and I received it on-Black Tuesday. The MRI results showed the possibility of metastasis in the lumbar spine. I knew that cancer could come back-but I didn't expect it to recur so quickly. So I was more depressed about the possibility that I have cancer than I was about my own people electing a cancer. Eeesh!!
My oncologist ordered an urgent bone scan to really check if there was a recurrence. And the imaging people said that it would be a few weeks before I could have the scan. And this is where it helps to be a warrior. I started making phone calls, and I refused to take no for an answer. I finally was able to reach the cancer nurse, who got back to me the next day and told me that she'd arranged for me to have the bone scan the following Monday morning (last Monday). That was a few hours of being irradiate-and the scanner was moved to within an inch of my nose (no exaggeration: I was afraid the tech would sneeze, or lose concentration, and I would be completely flattened). I then had to wait another week to see Mr. T and get the verdict. Meanwhile, I had other hospital appointments-every single bloody day!- so I was a bit busy. And knackered. And afraid-very, very afraid.
I got the news just in time for Thanksgiving: there is a lot of arthritis (but everyone over the age of 30 has arthritis somewhere-unless they never get out of bed), but no sign of malignancy. Mr. T. is ordering another scan, a very long one, and that will take place next week. This one will show if anything resembling cancer is brewing anywhere-so it's worth the extra radiation just to be certain that there is no cancer anywhere. I'll be so radioactive that nobody should stand anywhere near me if they ever want to have children.
I cried on the way back, I was that relieved. I didn't realize that the whole cancer experience was one from which I never really recovered. The prospect of a reprise sent me into a tailspin. So when I got back, I went online and I ordered a toaster.
A what? I hear you ask? A toaster? Well, I got fed up with toasting things under the grill-which I've done for years-and since I figure I'm not dying any time soon, I bought a toaster-a red one, in case you're interested. And yesterday I stuffed myself with turkey and all the trimmings, and had a glass of wine to celebrate the fact that I'm not dead.
I have a great idea (and when I called my friend in New York to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving, I mentioned it.). Everyone who was intelligent enough NOT to vote for the reptile should have a t-shirt printed, and millions of people should march on Washingto on January 20th to protest against the new fascist president. And what should the t-shirt say? I like statement t-shirts, by the way. So it should read: "Where is Lee Harvey Oswald now that we really need him?"
(the rest of you can just Google it).
Friday, 25 November 2016
Monday, 7 November 2016
Where are we? At the wire, that's where...
One more day and we find out whether or not our country is finished. And here I thought that I'm living in Dipshit Central, land of the obnoxious, inbred and braindead. Oh, crap!
It was always the case that every trend seemed to start in the USA and then find its' way over to Europe. But something has happened. I wonder if someone left Europe and landed in the States with a contagious retard virus. How many people want to see that misogynist, bigoted, exceptionally nasty weirdo and pervert in the White House? Obviously I'm talking about Trump. I watched as his wife stood in front of the media and said that she will make a wonderful first lady, and she just loves, loves, loves the country. I wanted to vomit.
I don't even know-or remember-the name of Trump's wife. I just call her Malaria. Close enough. The thought of Trump and Malaria in the White House is sending reverberations around the world: either it is a vomiting virus or a reaction to Trump buying his way into the White House...it's hard to tell.
Just think: millions of Americans will be committing suicide on Wednesday. And, because Trump feels that everyone should have a gun, the rest of them will be shooting each other. That'll cure overpopulation, that's for sure.
I'm just keeping my head down and hoping that Hillary wins tomorrow-not that it makes a difference to the fact that we are the laughing stock of the entire world. But-at least we would have a president who has experience and capability.
Meanwhile I am preparing to have a case of laryngitis that will last for the next four years (just in case). And I'm packing.
Anybody for Iceland?
It was always the case that every trend seemed to start in the USA and then find its' way over to Europe. But something has happened. I wonder if someone left Europe and landed in the States with a contagious retard virus. How many people want to see that misogynist, bigoted, exceptionally nasty weirdo and pervert in the White House? Obviously I'm talking about Trump. I watched as his wife stood in front of the media and said that she will make a wonderful first lady, and she just loves, loves, loves the country. I wanted to vomit.
I don't even know-or remember-the name of Trump's wife. I just call her Malaria. Close enough. The thought of Trump and Malaria in the White House is sending reverberations around the world: either it is a vomiting virus or a reaction to Trump buying his way into the White House...it's hard to tell.
Just think: millions of Americans will be committing suicide on Wednesday. And, because Trump feels that everyone should have a gun, the rest of them will be shooting each other. That'll cure overpopulation, that's for sure.
I'm just keeping my head down and hoping that Hillary wins tomorrow-not that it makes a difference to the fact that we are the laughing stock of the entire world. But-at least we would have a president who has experience and capability.
Meanwhile I am preparing to have a case of laryngitis that will last for the next four years (just in case). And I'm packing.
Anybody for Iceland?
Friday, 4 November 2016
Is Donald Trump America's answer to Jimmy Savile?
I was going to make jokes about being at the hospital so often that I'm thinking about having my mail redirected. I was even going to make jokes about changing the nipple dressings and looking to see that it looks like I've sprung two cauliflowers on my chest. The horrible fact of this is that one is tiny (done by the junior doctor) and the other (done by Steve) is so large I might have to carry it around in a sling. Or a hoist. This is what happens when you are an NHS patient: assembly line/conveyor belt medicine. Bring them in, operate (or talk to them for five minutes), then get them out and bring in the next sucker (oops. I mean "patient"...no, I mean "sucker").
But in the midst of all this medical palaver, what happened? The leaked email scandal happened. And, because this blog is not only about recovery from medical negligence but is also about what it is really like for an American to live in Britain, I have to say something. And say something I will.
Has anybody over there figured out that the REPUBLICAN head of the FBI deliberately instigated this witch hunt less than two weeks before the election? Nobody here has worked that out-but, of course, this is the home of brain-dead inbreds, so that is to be expected. I wonder how much Trump had to pay these FBI tossers to do this for him. Perhaps it's a case of quid pro quo if my people-MY people!! are stupid enough (or desperate enough) to elect the monster to the Presidency.
We had someone here called Jimmy Savile. Savile also hated women, made derogatory-and suggestive, and leering-remarks about young girls. Savile, however, was the BBC's golden boy (read that as "cash cow"). And Savile, who hosted a very popular show called "Jim'll Fix It", brought the viewership of the BBC up substantially, so everything he did was covered up.
Savile was a pedophile, a pervert, someone whose insatiable appetite for minors meant that he didn't just help children who wrote to him. He helped himself to those children, and others. Everyone at the BBC-all the management-actually now we know that there wasn't anyone at the BBC who didn't know that Savile was a sexual predator-covered up all his nasty, perverted activities.
Who suffered from Savile's lust for children? The children suffered. Because he was Jimmy Savile, people were afraid to speak out. And when the fertilizer finally hit the fan, Savile had the bad manners to die before he could be imprisoned. What a scumbag. And further investigations uncovered several other television and radio "personalities" who also sexually abused young people. Did it start with him making lewd comments about young girls? Who knows when or where it started. The point is, the Beeb knew and allowed it to go on (it probably still goes on now).
My point: Trump has made suggestive remarks on more than one occasion. He's a pig and a monster, and I'm wondering if he will go the Savile way. Will he get into the Oval Office and have his FBI friends procure (read that as "pimp") for him? Is he just a loud mouthed misogynist, someone who derides women (well, he is ugly. If he didn't have money, who would look twice at him without throwing up?), someone who obviously feels that all his money can buy the White House.
Can it? Is he right? He will make a mockery of the position of President - and, as it is, we are already the laughing stock of the rest of the world. Imagine him in the White House: anti-Muslim, anti-Semitic, anti-women's rights, anti just about everything that our country stands for. Imagine. He promises to bring back the steel industry (surely people in Ohio and Pennsylvania aren't THAT naive? Surely?? Please??). He's in bed with Putin, obviously. Nice bedmates-but better Putin than as many 14 year olds as he can get his creepy paws on.
What if he is more than just a redneck misogynist with a penchant for bullying and manipulating everyone he possibly can-and for pissing off everyone else? What if he turns out to be another Jimmy Savile? What if??
Everyone in power knew about Savile, and it was one of the most disgusting and disgraceful cover-ups in the history of the BBC (and the media at large. And small). And nobody protected those victims whose lives he destroyed. Nobody.
Nobody stopped the monster Jimmy Savile. Who is going to stop the monster Donald Trump?
But in the midst of all this medical palaver, what happened? The leaked email scandal happened. And, because this blog is not only about recovery from medical negligence but is also about what it is really like for an American to live in Britain, I have to say something. And say something I will.
Has anybody over there figured out that the REPUBLICAN head of the FBI deliberately instigated this witch hunt less than two weeks before the election? Nobody here has worked that out-but, of course, this is the home of brain-dead inbreds, so that is to be expected. I wonder how much Trump had to pay these FBI tossers to do this for him. Perhaps it's a case of quid pro quo if my people-MY people!! are stupid enough (or desperate enough) to elect the monster to the Presidency.
We had someone here called Jimmy Savile. Savile also hated women, made derogatory-and suggestive, and leering-remarks about young girls. Savile, however, was the BBC's golden boy (read that as "cash cow"). And Savile, who hosted a very popular show called "Jim'll Fix It", brought the viewership of the BBC up substantially, so everything he did was covered up.
Savile was a pedophile, a pervert, someone whose insatiable appetite for minors meant that he didn't just help children who wrote to him. He helped himself to those children, and others. Everyone at the BBC-all the management-actually now we know that there wasn't anyone at the BBC who didn't know that Savile was a sexual predator-covered up all his nasty, perverted activities.
Who suffered from Savile's lust for children? The children suffered. Because he was Jimmy Savile, people were afraid to speak out. And when the fertilizer finally hit the fan, Savile had the bad manners to die before he could be imprisoned. What a scumbag. And further investigations uncovered several other television and radio "personalities" who also sexually abused young people. Did it start with him making lewd comments about young girls? Who knows when or where it started. The point is, the Beeb knew and allowed it to go on (it probably still goes on now).
My point: Trump has made suggestive remarks on more than one occasion. He's a pig and a monster, and I'm wondering if he will go the Savile way. Will he get into the Oval Office and have his FBI friends procure (read that as "pimp") for him? Is he just a loud mouthed misogynist, someone who derides women (well, he is ugly. If he didn't have money, who would look twice at him without throwing up?), someone who obviously feels that all his money can buy the White House.
Can it? Is he right? He will make a mockery of the position of President - and, as it is, we are already the laughing stock of the rest of the world. Imagine him in the White House: anti-Muslim, anti-Semitic, anti-women's rights, anti just about everything that our country stands for. Imagine. He promises to bring back the steel industry (surely people in Ohio and Pennsylvania aren't THAT naive? Surely?? Please??). He's in bed with Putin, obviously. Nice bedmates-but better Putin than as many 14 year olds as he can get his creepy paws on.
What if he is more than just a redneck misogynist with a penchant for bullying and manipulating everyone he possibly can-and for pissing off everyone else? What if he turns out to be another Jimmy Savile? What if??
Everyone in power knew about Savile, and it was one of the most disgusting and disgraceful cover-ups in the history of the BBC (and the media at large. And small). And nobody protected those victims whose lives he destroyed. Nobody.
Nobody stopped the monster Jimmy Savile. Who is going to stop the monster Donald Trump?
Friday, 21 October 2016
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.
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.
Sunday, 16 October 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, 20 September 2016
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...
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...
Friday, 2 September 2016
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.
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