My friend and his wife drove over to collect the stuff I got from my neighbor-and, although she was very sympathetic, he told me that I've been played, that all the gear wasn't worth even half what I paid for it. So now his pet name for me is Muggins-because he said that I'm a world class mug. I believe every hard luck story - and I suppose that's true, because I always want to believe the best in people. Oops-what a mug. So he took everything away, and I felt terrible, so he gave me what he thought he could get for it all, and I took the hit. Fair enough-I've known them both for more than ten years, they won't rip me off. Hopefully.
As for my neighbor-he is going into hospital for cancer surgery next week, looks like crap, and even though I know I've been ripped off, I still feel like I did a good thing. His friends wouldn't help him; he would have starved for two weeks. Nice friends.
As for my week-apart from that-I didn't have a single hospital appointment-booyah. I make up for it in the next couple of weeks, but I also retake the neurology tests and see the neurologist. I'm a little concerned, but not as freaked out as I was over the past two weeks.
I told you that my immunology team wouldn't help, because they are immunology, and not neurology. So I did some digging and found the name and email address of the consultant who has my name on his list. That is how they work it here: every patient is on someone's list, but sometimes (most times) you wait for hours on end and then see a junior doctor. Mine was very thorough, which I appreciated, but I needed answers from my consultant. And, amazingly enough, I got them. Sort of.
I emailed last week and I got a reply yesterday. They test for everything that could possibly cause the symptoms I've been having, and the tests which prove motor neurone will be provided as quickly as possible. This, for me, will be the end of the month. All they want to do is rule things out, so the person who mentioned motor neurone should never have said anything, Test. Prove. Diagnose. Until then, keep mouth shut. So that made me feel better.
I braved the crowds of idiots and went to Essex to see my friend yesterday. In keeping with my new practice of not giving out any names-so all doctors are now Mr. X or Mr. Y-and trust me when I say that I get very confused!-I'll just call her D. I had acupuncture. We caught up. It's a very long journey (three hours), and I probably should find a practitioner closer to home, but it's nice to just get out and get away from London for a day. And it was sunny and warm, so I wasn't complaining.
Now the proverbial has hit the fan about the budget, and people are more miserable than usual (if that's possible). I get really depressed about the fact that I'm stuck here for the duration, and I would love to come home ("home" being over the pond), but I look at what that Neanderthal is doing to my country and I just shake my head in disbelief. With a bit of luck, he'll get kicked out before he does damage that is irreparable.
In three months I return to Queen Square to have all the original tests again, which will be interesting. I've only got three months to get my act together, and to really do the work; I admit to being very sloppy about that, walking but not doing the other exercises. It shows, and this lapse is down to me and nobody else. So, sleeves rolled up, get those weights, charts, cushions, and try not to fall over and break anything.
Nobody is coming to rescue me-I have to get off my backside and rescue myself. Nobody knows how much time we have, even though when we're children we think we'll live forever. Not so-I see people I know (or know about) dropping like flies, so whatever time I have left, I must not waste it.
On that rather sad note, I'm off to Starbucks. It's supposed to rain later, as usual-my flat white is calling my name...
Friday, 10 March 2017
Saturday, 4 March 2017
They don't call it La La Land for nothing...
Last weekend was rather meh-I decided that I am not going to lose any more sleep over the possibility that I might have motor neurone. In fact, I'm quite certain that the neurologists are just doing tests to rule out anything nasty, and the person who said something did so out of turn. What a dummy! You just don't do that to a patient-or to anyone. It really is like saying to someone "You've got terminal cancer. But would you like a cup of tea? Want a biscuit with that?". Doctors should be more respectful of patients' feelings (unless, of course, you are an immunologist at the Royal London Hospital. Then it's a given that you don't give a shit).
Now-I never watch the Oscars-or the Baftas, or any of those awards shows, because they're filled with people whose main talent is patting themselves on the back so hard, I'm surprised that someone doesn't dislocate something. The air is filled with hypocrisy and phoniness, everyone sucking up to everyone else-really, it makes me want to start heaving and run for the sick bag. None of those people are doing important things-like, finding a cure for cancer, or finding a way to stop everyone from nuking everyone else.
So, on Monday morning, I heard the news about the disaster that was the Oscars-and I have to admit that I laughed so hard that I got a cramp in my side and nearly wet myself (no-I did say "nearly"). And, to add insult to injury-as if announcing the wrong film and waiting for the other guys to get up to give their acceptance speeches before springing the mistake onto an unsuspecting world-they managed to put a photo of a live person into the memorium section, thereby leaving some poor woman having to declare that no, she isn't really dead.
I'll bet that someone will try to pass the buck and blame some poor clerk-but whoever was responsible for the debacle is probably collecting unemployment. And leaving town-possibly the country-and the continent. You might find them somewhere in China.
I did something really stupid on Monday. One of my neighbors has cancer, and is so certain that he is going to die that he is liquidating everything he owns. I felt really terrible for him: first his dog ran away a couple of weeks ago, then his wife, on being told about his condition, proceeded to empty his bank account and take off. You can imagine what a state he was in! So he was left with less than a fiver, with no food or money for the next two weeks. So rather than just say that I was so sorry to hear that (which I did), I asked him what he is planning to do for the next two weeks. He said that he has a very good drill, and a saw, and a couple of little cameras, and a three year old laptop, and he was going to go around some building sites and try to sell everything (his wife apparently took anything of any value when she pissed off). I suggested putting signs in local shops, or posting everything online. But he said that he is also diabetic, and he couldn't wait that long. So I said that I have a friend who does a lot of building work, I could call him and explain the situation.
I did this-and my friend said that he would buy everything, but he was doing it because of the situation, and that he would move everything on, probably sell it at a loss. What a hero! So, I went to my neighbor, I gave him cash, took the items, and stuck them in the car, waiting for my friend to come and collect them. My neighbor still thanks me a million times for saving his life-which made me feel a bit uncomfortable, but I didn't feel as if I could do nothing, given the poor man's condition. He even showed me the hospital letter-so there you are, both my friend and I will take a hit, because the stuff isn't worth much. But-at least my neighbor can eat for a couple of weeks. The update I got from him when I saw him in the car park yesterday was a confirmation that his cancer has metastasized. Did I do a stupid thing? Am I a mug? Probably-but I have a tendency to believe people when they are in trouble, and I felt that he was in deep trouble.
That was my week, basically-I did a couple of hospital days, and I've emailed the head of the neurology department to ask him to review my notes and tell me exactly what is going on, since I don't get to see anyone until the end of March. People might call me a bitch because I insist on getting things done, getting answers to my questions, forcing people to actually do some work-but I don't sit on my ass, so I don't allow anyone else to sit on theirs.
You know how something happens and it triggers some random memory, something you thought you'd forgotten? Well, my head must be filled with all kinds of random junk, little bits and pieces of-I don't know what, but some of it's very entertaining. The Oscar disaster made me think of my old friend and neighbor, Hayley. I've got no idea why...
Hayley used to hold Ann Summers parties to earn a little extra cash. She would invite people over, and an Ann Summers rep would show all kinds of lingerie (some really racy stuff-for the time), whips, chains, handcuffs, and some battery operated devices that were so big they made my eyes water. It must have hurt like hell to insert one of those...but anyway, she invited her friend Linda to the same party I attended. And Linda was heavily pregnant.
Now, Linda sat there and whinged about being pregnant, and insisted that she was only pregnant because (you might want to sit for this) she left the lights on. Excuse me?? I asked her to repeat what she had just said, and she said that she used the rhythm method, but left the lights on and that's why she got pregnant. Want to guess where she's from? Yep-somewhere in Essex there's a village that's missing its idiot.
I ran into Hayley some years later, and she told me that Linda now had ten children, but from seven different fathers. She said that Essex council had to provide Linda with two council houses that they knocked together to accommodate all those children. And I said, she must have one hell of an electricity bill. Plus, with all those children, it must be like tossing a sausage into the Grand Canyon.
What a scary thought.
Now-I never watch the Oscars-or the Baftas, or any of those awards shows, because they're filled with people whose main talent is patting themselves on the back so hard, I'm surprised that someone doesn't dislocate something. The air is filled with hypocrisy and phoniness, everyone sucking up to everyone else-really, it makes me want to start heaving and run for the sick bag. None of those people are doing important things-like, finding a cure for cancer, or finding a way to stop everyone from nuking everyone else.
So, on Monday morning, I heard the news about the disaster that was the Oscars-and I have to admit that I laughed so hard that I got a cramp in my side and nearly wet myself (no-I did say "nearly"). And, to add insult to injury-as if announcing the wrong film and waiting for the other guys to get up to give their acceptance speeches before springing the mistake onto an unsuspecting world-they managed to put a photo of a live person into the memorium section, thereby leaving some poor woman having to declare that no, she isn't really dead.
I'll bet that someone will try to pass the buck and blame some poor clerk-but whoever was responsible for the debacle is probably collecting unemployment. And leaving town-possibly the country-and the continent. You might find them somewhere in China.
I did something really stupid on Monday. One of my neighbors has cancer, and is so certain that he is going to die that he is liquidating everything he owns. I felt really terrible for him: first his dog ran away a couple of weeks ago, then his wife, on being told about his condition, proceeded to empty his bank account and take off. You can imagine what a state he was in! So he was left with less than a fiver, with no food or money for the next two weeks. So rather than just say that I was so sorry to hear that (which I did), I asked him what he is planning to do for the next two weeks. He said that he has a very good drill, and a saw, and a couple of little cameras, and a three year old laptop, and he was going to go around some building sites and try to sell everything (his wife apparently took anything of any value when she pissed off). I suggested putting signs in local shops, or posting everything online. But he said that he is also diabetic, and he couldn't wait that long. So I said that I have a friend who does a lot of building work, I could call him and explain the situation.
I did this-and my friend said that he would buy everything, but he was doing it because of the situation, and that he would move everything on, probably sell it at a loss. What a hero! So, I went to my neighbor, I gave him cash, took the items, and stuck them in the car, waiting for my friend to come and collect them. My neighbor still thanks me a million times for saving his life-which made me feel a bit uncomfortable, but I didn't feel as if I could do nothing, given the poor man's condition. He even showed me the hospital letter-so there you are, both my friend and I will take a hit, because the stuff isn't worth much. But-at least my neighbor can eat for a couple of weeks. The update I got from him when I saw him in the car park yesterday was a confirmation that his cancer has metastasized. Did I do a stupid thing? Am I a mug? Probably-but I have a tendency to believe people when they are in trouble, and I felt that he was in deep trouble.
That was my week, basically-I did a couple of hospital days, and I've emailed the head of the neurology department to ask him to review my notes and tell me exactly what is going on, since I don't get to see anyone until the end of March. People might call me a bitch because I insist on getting things done, getting answers to my questions, forcing people to actually do some work-but I don't sit on my ass, so I don't allow anyone else to sit on theirs.
You know how something happens and it triggers some random memory, something you thought you'd forgotten? Well, my head must be filled with all kinds of random junk, little bits and pieces of-I don't know what, but some of it's very entertaining. The Oscar disaster made me think of my old friend and neighbor, Hayley. I've got no idea why...
Hayley used to hold Ann Summers parties to earn a little extra cash. She would invite people over, and an Ann Summers rep would show all kinds of lingerie (some really racy stuff-for the time), whips, chains, handcuffs, and some battery operated devices that were so big they made my eyes water. It must have hurt like hell to insert one of those...but anyway, she invited her friend Linda to the same party I attended. And Linda was heavily pregnant.
Now, Linda sat there and whinged about being pregnant, and insisted that she was only pregnant because (you might want to sit for this) she left the lights on. Excuse me?? I asked her to repeat what she had just said, and she said that she used the rhythm method, but left the lights on and that's why she got pregnant. Want to guess where she's from? Yep-somewhere in Essex there's a village that's missing its idiot.
I ran into Hayley some years later, and she told me that Linda now had ten children, but from seven different fathers. She said that Essex council had to provide Linda with two council houses that they knocked together to accommodate all those children. And I said, she must have one hell of an electricity bill. Plus, with all those children, it must be like tossing a sausage into the Grand Canyon.
What a scary thought.
Saturday, 25 February 2017
OMG-WTF
I did share the news about the possibility of motor neurone-with my closest friends, whose reactions were as above: Oh My God, What the Fuck!!?? This is no time to be particularly PC-not that I've ever been PC anyway, as regular readers know by now.
I had a weepy and sleepless weekend last week-but how could I have anything other than that? And who in their right mind-regardless of how overworked and grumpy they are at the time- would ever just say to a patient "oh, by the way, they think you have motor neurone, but they didn't want to tell you". Duh?? It's like saying to someone "You've got cancer. But never mind, have a cup of tea, and would you like a biscuit with that?".
Everyone I know consulted the Great God Google-including me. I'm forever looking up things on Google-it has to be one of the greatest inventions of all time, up there with Microsoft, computers, antibiotics, Starbucks and Kettle Chips. Mustn't forget Starbucks and Kettle Chips, they kept me going all week. Hang the five a day. Enjoy life.
This week was a bit tricky. I met up with a friend who sold her flat, quit her job, and has been looking for work since just after New Year's. I told her not to worry, that she would find something really great, and she felt better. Last night she phoned me and told me that she starts her new job on Tuesday. Well, I had to be supportive, and I could hear relief in her voice.
That was the start of an okay week. I decided that I don't have motor neurone, and that there is nothing I can do about it until I retake the tests, and that will happen-er-sometime. The NHS is so overstretched that who knows when this will all take place? I have to stop worrying about everything-no wonder I get depressed! I mentally swore at the doctor who gave me this news without thinking about it first. You know, there is always one, isn't there, with the "bedside manner" of Attila the Hun.
We had this storm called Doris, and furiously high winds. I knew I was in for a tough time getting to see my friend Dani in Essex, but I decided to go anyway. I didn't go anywhere on Tuesday, walked a bit on Wednesday, and could feel the change in my balance almost immediately. If I don't do the vestibular exercises and walk-a lot-every day, I start to revert back to where I was a year ago, and that doesn't make me very happy. These exercises are for life. Thanks to the four cripplers at Barts for that-but it does give me a challenge, so I just keep going, like the Energizer bunny.
Well-the wind blew me everywhere on Thursday-and there were times I thought I was going to end up in traffic, which I found a bit scary. But I persevered, fought the very high winds, and got to see my friend on time. I even fought the winds on the way back, and there were times where I had to stop walking and stand there and get thrown around. But I got back (took three hours), got blown into the flat, made a strong coffee, and realized that I hadn't fallen over once. Not once.
Miracles do happen, and I'm living proof of that. By rights I should have been dead long ago, but I'm still going. And the fact that I got there and back without any problems-except strong winds, which I decided to fight so I could get there in time-was a huge win for me. I never could have done this a couple of years ago. I wouldn't even have attempted it, I didn't have the confidence.
It's quite amazing how you cope when you don't really have any other choice. So I just keep putting one foot in front of another and hope that I won't fall over myself. And one lesson of this past week is: never believe everything anyone tells you. Demand proof. Just because they call themselves "experts" it doesn't mean that they aren't really total assholes.
I had a weepy and sleepless weekend last week-but how could I have anything other than that? And who in their right mind-regardless of how overworked and grumpy they are at the time- would ever just say to a patient "oh, by the way, they think you have motor neurone, but they didn't want to tell you". Duh?? It's like saying to someone "You've got cancer. But never mind, have a cup of tea, and would you like a biscuit with that?".
Everyone I know consulted the Great God Google-including me. I'm forever looking up things on Google-it has to be one of the greatest inventions of all time, up there with Microsoft, computers, antibiotics, Starbucks and Kettle Chips. Mustn't forget Starbucks and Kettle Chips, they kept me going all week. Hang the five a day. Enjoy life.
This week was a bit tricky. I met up with a friend who sold her flat, quit her job, and has been looking for work since just after New Year's. I told her not to worry, that she would find something really great, and she felt better. Last night she phoned me and told me that she starts her new job on Tuesday. Well, I had to be supportive, and I could hear relief in her voice.
That was the start of an okay week. I decided that I don't have motor neurone, and that there is nothing I can do about it until I retake the tests, and that will happen-er-sometime. The NHS is so overstretched that who knows when this will all take place? I have to stop worrying about everything-no wonder I get depressed! I mentally swore at the doctor who gave me this news without thinking about it first. You know, there is always one, isn't there, with the "bedside manner" of Attila the Hun.
We had this storm called Doris, and furiously high winds. I knew I was in for a tough time getting to see my friend Dani in Essex, but I decided to go anyway. I didn't go anywhere on Tuesday, walked a bit on Wednesday, and could feel the change in my balance almost immediately. If I don't do the vestibular exercises and walk-a lot-every day, I start to revert back to where I was a year ago, and that doesn't make me very happy. These exercises are for life. Thanks to the four cripplers at Barts for that-but it does give me a challenge, so I just keep going, like the Energizer bunny.
Well-the wind blew me everywhere on Thursday-and there were times I thought I was going to end up in traffic, which I found a bit scary. But I persevered, fought the very high winds, and got to see my friend on time. I even fought the winds on the way back, and there were times where I had to stop walking and stand there and get thrown around. But I got back (took three hours), got blown into the flat, made a strong coffee, and realized that I hadn't fallen over once. Not once.
Miracles do happen, and I'm living proof of that. By rights I should have been dead long ago, but I'm still going. And the fact that I got there and back without any problems-except strong winds, which I decided to fight so I could get there in time-was a huge win for me. I never could have done this a couple of years ago. I wouldn't even have attempted it, I didn't have the confidence.
It's quite amazing how you cope when you don't really have any other choice. So I just keep putting one foot in front of another and hope that I won't fall over myself. And one lesson of this past week is: never believe everything anyone tells you. Demand proof. Just because they call themselves "experts" it doesn't mean that they aren't really total assholes.
Saturday, 18 February 2017
Running around in ever decreasing circles...until I vanish up my own backside
That is one of those northern sayings that make me laugh-and this hasn't been a week of joy and laughter, I can tell you. You know when you lose your temper over something that is so trivial that it wouldn't ordinarily bother you? And then, when you look at it later (if you look at it later), you see that it reminded you of something in your past that was really important (or you thought so at the time)? That was my week.
I had the weepies last weekend, and they lasted all week. I couldn't figure out why-because Valentine's Day doesn't really have any significance any more. Even when I was married, my ex ignored it as being unimportant and insignificant-but he did that with birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, etc., so I got used to it. Then I divorced him. Well, obviously.
I spent the entire week with a bad feeling, and I have learned the hard way (believe me, it was definitely the hard way!) to trust that when I get a bad feeling in my gut, it usually isn't food poisoning, but something I need to trust.
This was a hospital week, and I've got a few more of those before I have a few odd appointments here and there, so I can actually get things done (dust bunnies. Yick-so many dust bunnies I could open a dust bunny store). Apart from my infusions, I had two consultants' appointments, and those should have been routine-except, they weren't routine at all. No wonder I had a pissed off week.
If you've been following this for awhile, you've been with me through the gentamicin, idiots at the Royal London and Barts very nearly killing me, having to fight my way back from being bedridden for two years, cancer and a double mastectomy...the list goes on. And on. And on. And here I thought that I am, after a hellish seven year period, turning the corner. So it was a huge shock when I was told that I need to have more tests to confirm a diagnosis of-get ready for it-motor neurone.
More tests, more scans-I'll probably just keel over from radiation poisoning. But Dr. X said that we repeat the tests-and do more-just to be certain. Dr. X-very experienced, very competent, pretty good "bedside manner". So we'll see-and if I'm in for another fight, well, I'm used to it.
I had the warning shot over the bow about using names in the blog, because some people get really upset (even though I've heaped praise on the ones who deserve that praise). Of course, the cripplers-and Bucky Buckland, the Anti-Christ-will always be fair game. But now, everyone at my new hospital is "Mr. X" or "Mr. Y"-regardless of gender. And if that upsets any females, they can smack me in the head the next time they see me. The problem is this: CRS (Can't Remember Shit), and the fact that there are so many specialists I forget who is Mr. X and who is Mr. Y. So I have at least three Mr. Ys-they''' be more confused than I am, and that (depending on the specialty) can be worrying.
Can I use "the one with the grey hair"? No, they all have grey hair-and some of them have no hair. So, Mr. X it is, and I'll just figure it out as I go along.
I seem to be over the initial shock of the (possible) diagnosis, and I've decided that I can't do anything right now except ruminate over it, and we all know how useless that is, so I'll just wait. Not even the thought of stuffing my face with Kettle Chips had an impact-so perhaps I'll do some spring cleaning a little early.
There are worse things to worry about-like the possibility of that mental case Trump starting a war. That will certainly end the prospect of anyone worrying about anything, because it will be the end of life on earth. Aren't I cheerful? But I will protest if he does anything even more stupid before Easter, because my friend is coming over from Ireland, and I really want to spend some time with her before there is a nuclear war.
One of the doctors this last week (Dr. Y-one of them) asked me if my personality has changed lately. I asked if being more grumpy than usual counts. I'm grumpy, and bad tempered, but I said that people who are rude and incredibly stupid (and who just crash into me without looking and then swear at me afterwards) really get me angry. So, okay, that was accepted. Then I was asked if I laugh at things that nobody else finds funny, or if I don't find everyone else's humor funny. Now there is a minefield, and I said that I do laugh at strange things, but that is my sense of humor: dry, dark, probably a little twisted. I said that will probably never change, just ask my friends (who are just as strange as I am).
I spent an hour answering questions-and this is the NHS, where you have to wait two hours after your appointment to see anyone (if you're lucky), and then you get ten minutes (also if you're lucky). So that's how I knew it was serious.
I guess we will have to see what happens. And now-I'm off to Starbucks. Hang the motor neurone.
I had the weepies last weekend, and they lasted all week. I couldn't figure out why-because Valentine's Day doesn't really have any significance any more. Even when I was married, my ex ignored it as being unimportant and insignificant-but he did that with birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, etc., so I got used to it. Then I divorced him. Well, obviously.
I spent the entire week with a bad feeling, and I have learned the hard way (believe me, it was definitely the hard way!) to trust that when I get a bad feeling in my gut, it usually isn't food poisoning, but something I need to trust.
This was a hospital week, and I've got a few more of those before I have a few odd appointments here and there, so I can actually get things done (dust bunnies. Yick-so many dust bunnies I could open a dust bunny store). Apart from my infusions, I had two consultants' appointments, and those should have been routine-except, they weren't routine at all. No wonder I had a pissed off week.
If you've been following this for awhile, you've been with me through the gentamicin, idiots at the Royal London and Barts very nearly killing me, having to fight my way back from being bedridden for two years, cancer and a double mastectomy...the list goes on. And on. And on. And here I thought that I am, after a hellish seven year period, turning the corner. So it was a huge shock when I was told that I need to have more tests to confirm a diagnosis of-get ready for it-motor neurone.
More tests, more scans-I'll probably just keel over from radiation poisoning. But Dr. X said that we repeat the tests-and do more-just to be certain. Dr. X-very experienced, very competent, pretty good "bedside manner". So we'll see-and if I'm in for another fight, well, I'm used to it.
I had the warning shot over the bow about using names in the blog, because some people get really upset (even though I've heaped praise on the ones who deserve that praise). Of course, the cripplers-and Bucky Buckland, the Anti-Christ-will always be fair game. But now, everyone at my new hospital is "Mr. X" or "Mr. Y"-regardless of gender. And if that upsets any females, they can smack me in the head the next time they see me. The problem is this: CRS (Can't Remember Shit), and the fact that there are so many specialists I forget who is Mr. X and who is Mr. Y. So I have at least three Mr. Ys-they''' be more confused than I am, and that (depending on the specialty) can be worrying.
Can I use "the one with the grey hair"? No, they all have grey hair-and some of them have no hair. So, Mr. X it is, and I'll just figure it out as I go along.
I seem to be over the initial shock of the (possible) diagnosis, and I've decided that I can't do anything right now except ruminate over it, and we all know how useless that is, so I'll just wait. Not even the thought of stuffing my face with Kettle Chips had an impact-so perhaps I'll do some spring cleaning a little early.
There are worse things to worry about-like the possibility of that mental case Trump starting a war. That will certainly end the prospect of anyone worrying about anything, because it will be the end of life on earth. Aren't I cheerful? But I will protest if he does anything even more stupid before Easter, because my friend is coming over from Ireland, and I really want to spend some time with her before there is a nuclear war.
One of the doctors this last week (Dr. Y-one of them) asked me if my personality has changed lately. I asked if being more grumpy than usual counts. I'm grumpy, and bad tempered, but I said that people who are rude and incredibly stupid (and who just crash into me without looking and then swear at me afterwards) really get me angry. So, okay, that was accepted. Then I was asked if I laugh at things that nobody else finds funny, or if I don't find everyone else's humor funny. Now there is a minefield, and I said that I do laugh at strange things, but that is my sense of humor: dry, dark, probably a little twisted. I said that will probably never change, just ask my friends (who are just as strange as I am).
I spent an hour answering questions-and this is the NHS, where you have to wait two hours after your appointment to see anyone (if you're lucky), and then you get ten minutes (also if you're lucky). So that's how I knew it was serious.
I guess we will have to see what happens. And now-I'm off to Starbucks. Hang the motor neurone.
Saturday, 11 February 2017
Rise of the Walking Dead
I felt like I could be one of the extras in The Walking Dead-no makeup required. This flu/chest infection/dreaded lurgy that has been going around flattened me for three weeks, and I coughed so much that I started looking to see if lung tissue was coming up. And, because of the immunity (or lack thereof), I was on heavy duty antibiotics, and it took a week to get over those. So I only did what I really had to do, and cancelled or deferred everything else.
Now I have returned to the land of the living-and all the ideas I had of just stopping everything-by everything I mean the antibody replacement, the antibiotics, all the treatments-went out the window. I realize that everything I'm doing keeps me from developing something that will kill me-well, hopefully, anyway. I still have the tremendous desire to reach my hundredth birthday, be fit, healthy and compos mentis, and be riding on my Harley down the Pacific Coast Highway with my 80 year old toyboy sitting behind me (someone has to be able to pick up the bike if it falls over, come on), stop and look at the scenery and then just keel over. What a way to go (either that or be having sex-at 100-now there's a terrific way to come and go at the same time).
One thing that cheered me up during this flu ridden time was last Thursday-Groundhog Day. Every February 2, I look for footage of Punxsutawney Phil, the world's most famous groundhog, leaving his burrow, waving his little paws at the world's press, and looking for his shadow. If he sees it, that means we have six more weeks of winter. It's such an old tradition-it's great fun, I think, watching these old guys in their top hats going to confer with Phil. I cannot for the life of me understand why some people get so bitchy about the fact that Phil isn't always right. Who cares? It's fun, and a reason to party and celebrate-God knows that our world needs any excuse to celebrate right now. I think the naysayers are the ones who had no friends in school, and probably still don't. There are many copies of Phil now-but he's the first, and the real deal.
Apparently Phil came out of his burrow right on schedule, waved his little paws at the cameras, did a few jumps (only a few-he's really old, after all), and when one of the old guys told him that there is a big fat rodent with bad hair and a worse attitude in the White House, he declared that we will have four more years of winter (probably nuclear winter), and that he was going on strike for four years and would come back before the next election. Of course, that is only if there is a Pennsylvania, or a United States, Europe, or the rest of the world.
Millions of Americans wish that we could do the same.
People here have asked me why we seem to worship Punxsutawney Phil, since he is only a rodent. I reply that the Brits worship their own rodents (they live in the palace, Downing Street, Whitehall, etc), and, in fact, this country is completely overrun by rodents. Some of them even have four legs.
I'm back to normal, as you can tell, irascible as ever. And we have snow. I like that too, having grown up with snow angels, snowball fights, snow days off school (especially snow days, every child's dream). But here, one hundredth of a millimetre of snow means that everything in London (and the rest of the country) stops. Trains don't run on time (and sometimes not at all) because there is white stuff on the tracks, buses don't work, flights are cancelled...it's funny, really-but only if I have no place to go.
One day (maybe) these guys will sort themselves out. Things will work (maybe), the NHS will be saved (not likely, in my lifetime-or anyone else's), people will stop bitching and whingeing about Brexit (which could be the best thing that this country has done in decades. Or not. Only time will tell), and, by that time, I will be riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my Harley.
I'm off to Starbucks. Some things work regardless of the weather!
Now I have returned to the land of the living-and all the ideas I had of just stopping everything-by everything I mean the antibody replacement, the antibiotics, all the treatments-went out the window. I realize that everything I'm doing keeps me from developing something that will kill me-well, hopefully, anyway. I still have the tremendous desire to reach my hundredth birthday, be fit, healthy and compos mentis, and be riding on my Harley down the Pacific Coast Highway with my 80 year old toyboy sitting behind me (someone has to be able to pick up the bike if it falls over, come on), stop and look at the scenery and then just keel over. What a way to go (either that or be having sex-at 100-now there's a terrific way to come and go at the same time).
One thing that cheered me up during this flu ridden time was last Thursday-Groundhog Day. Every February 2, I look for footage of Punxsutawney Phil, the world's most famous groundhog, leaving his burrow, waving his little paws at the world's press, and looking for his shadow. If he sees it, that means we have six more weeks of winter. It's such an old tradition-it's great fun, I think, watching these old guys in their top hats going to confer with Phil. I cannot for the life of me understand why some people get so bitchy about the fact that Phil isn't always right. Who cares? It's fun, and a reason to party and celebrate-God knows that our world needs any excuse to celebrate right now. I think the naysayers are the ones who had no friends in school, and probably still don't. There are many copies of Phil now-but he's the first, and the real deal.
Apparently Phil came out of his burrow right on schedule, waved his little paws at the cameras, did a few jumps (only a few-he's really old, after all), and when one of the old guys told him that there is a big fat rodent with bad hair and a worse attitude in the White House, he declared that we will have four more years of winter (probably nuclear winter), and that he was going on strike for four years and would come back before the next election. Of course, that is only if there is a Pennsylvania, or a United States, Europe, or the rest of the world.
Millions of Americans wish that we could do the same.
People here have asked me why we seem to worship Punxsutawney Phil, since he is only a rodent. I reply that the Brits worship their own rodents (they live in the palace, Downing Street, Whitehall, etc), and, in fact, this country is completely overrun by rodents. Some of them even have four legs.
I'm back to normal, as you can tell, irascible as ever. And we have snow. I like that too, having grown up with snow angels, snowball fights, snow days off school (especially snow days, every child's dream). But here, one hundredth of a millimetre of snow means that everything in London (and the rest of the country) stops. Trains don't run on time (and sometimes not at all) because there is white stuff on the tracks, buses don't work, flights are cancelled...it's funny, really-but only if I have no place to go.
One day (maybe) these guys will sort themselves out. Things will work (maybe), the NHS will be saved (not likely, in my lifetime-or anyone else's), people will stop bitching and whingeing about Brexit (which could be the best thing that this country has done in decades. Or not. Only time will tell), and, by that time, I will be riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my Harley.
I'm off to Starbucks. Some things work regardless of the weather!
Tuesday, 31 January 2017
Humpty Dumpty Sat on a Wall...
I know how he felt. I've been waiting to fall off for a couple of weeks now. Flu-the very nasty flu that I thought I'd escaped while everyone around me was coughing and choking and sounding like they were at death's door. That is what I get for being smug! It's been my turn. Humpty Dumpty indeed.
So I have been in bed, except for the hospital appointments that I couldn't change, and feeling very sorry for myself. Even my hospital nurses have been sick, and that is probably how I got this in the first place! And to add insult to injury, I was cautioned about the blog, which just happened to find its way to my new clinic at the Royal Free. No guesses as to who complained about it. That would be the Buckster, Matt Anti-Christ infantile abuser and general douchebag Buckland, now working out of the Royal Free. Good grief, I wish someone would run the pile of crap over, and save all those poor patients, not to mention the children at Great Ormond Street Hospital.
Apparently, he is on his good behavior, and the staff think he is wonderful. Just wait until he reverts to type. Of course, the person who warned me said that I am entitled to have a blog, but I need to be careful about naming people, because that could cause the Trust to discharge me from care. I was very clear in my response: I'm happier and healthier (except for this flu!) since I left the Royal London, my team is terrific, and I haven't said anything nasty about anyone, only-one creature, and I reserve the right to tell the truth about him and the despicable way he behaved, not only toward me, but toward other patients, too. He can rot in hell (which, no doubt, he will, and the sooner the better for everyone), and I won't back away from telling the truth.
So, no names, although I did mention the oncologist and the plastic surgeon, but I said only good things about them. Why not? I think they are excellent consultants. But, in future, no names.
I have been warned.
While I've been lying around, coughing up lung tissue, sneezing and using up several boxes of Kleenex (I wish I had stock in the company, I would have made a fortune), I've been watching the news, which is probably a huge mistake. Trump hasn't been in the White House two weeks and he has already alienated everyone. Again. The man is mentally unstable, unfit and unqualified for the position of President, and he has brought all his other racist buddies with him. Even Bush wasn't hated as much as Trump-and Bush, well...we all know about Bush.
The Democrats have to get their act together, and soon, before that racist Trump starts a nuclear war. He'll be the cause of increased terrorist attacks everywhere, that's for sure. And who is going to pay for his bright idea, the wall between the US and Mexico? Is he going to cough up some of his own money? Hardly.
Has anyone worked out that the reason he didn't ban people from Saudi and the UAE (9/11 anyone?) is because he has business interests there? There is oil, of course, but I think that he's using his position as president to line his own pockets. I'd bet on it, and I don't bet on anything.
So that's me, cough cough, sneeze, sneeze, but this week is better than last week, so perhaps I'm on the mend. I'm cautiously optimistic-although it seems that when I'm cautiously optimistic, some other disaster happens.
It's Kettle Chips for me....and Starbucks.
So I have been in bed, except for the hospital appointments that I couldn't change, and feeling very sorry for myself. Even my hospital nurses have been sick, and that is probably how I got this in the first place! And to add insult to injury, I was cautioned about the blog, which just happened to find its way to my new clinic at the Royal Free. No guesses as to who complained about it. That would be the Buckster, Matt Anti-Christ infantile abuser and general douchebag Buckland, now working out of the Royal Free. Good grief, I wish someone would run the pile of crap over, and save all those poor patients, not to mention the children at Great Ormond Street Hospital.
Apparently, he is on his good behavior, and the staff think he is wonderful. Just wait until he reverts to type. Of course, the person who warned me said that I am entitled to have a blog, but I need to be careful about naming people, because that could cause the Trust to discharge me from care. I was very clear in my response: I'm happier and healthier (except for this flu!) since I left the Royal London, my team is terrific, and I haven't said anything nasty about anyone, only-one creature, and I reserve the right to tell the truth about him and the despicable way he behaved, not only toward me, but toward other patients, too. He can rot in hell (which, no doubt, he will, and the sooner the better for everyone), and I won't back away from telling the truth.
So, no names, although I did mention the oncologist and the plastic surgeon, but I said only good things about them. Why not? I think they are excellent consultants. But, in future, no names.
I have been warned.
While I've been lying around, coughing up lung tissue, sneezing and using up several boxes of Kleenex (I wish I had stock in the company, I would have made a fortune), I've been watching the news, which is probably a huge mistake. Trump hasn't been in the White House two weeks and he has already alienated everyone. Again. The man is mentally unstable, unfit and unqualified for the position of President, and he has brought all his other racist buddies with him. Even Bush wasn't hated as much as Trump-and Bush, well...we all know about Bush.
The Democrats have to get their act together, and soon, before that racist Trump starts a nuclear war. He'll be the cause of increased terrorist attacks everywhere, that's for sure. And who is going to pay for his bright idea, the wall between the US and Mexico? Is he going to cough up some of his own money? Hardly.
Has anyone worked out that the reason he didn't ban people from Saudi and the UAE (9/11 anyone?) is because he has business interests there? There is oil, of course, but I think that he's using his position as president to line his own pockets. I'd bet on it, and I don't bet on anything.
So that's me, cough cough, sneeze, sneeze, but this week is better than last week, so perhaps I'm on the mend. I'm cautiously optimistic-although it seems that when I'm cautiously optimistic, some other disaster happens.
It's Kettle Chips for me....and Starbucks.
Saturday, 21 January 2017
Where is Lee Harvey Oswald now that we really need him?
Oh, please-if you have to shoot a President-couldn't you shoot this one? Yesterday should have been declared a national day of mourning-flags flying at half mast, black shrouds covering windows, people throwing up in the streets-oh, but weren't people throwing up in the streets?
Did I watch the inauguration? Seriously? Watch while an ignorant, racist, immature (look at his Twitter feeds. Does he seem like he has the maturity of a six year old?), misogynist, xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Semitic, anti-Muslim, anti-black, a liar, hypocrite, pervert-the country's premier douchebag-and he now has the nuclear codes. Did I miss anything?
What could possibly go wrong??
I didn't think much of Obama-I thought he was a mediocre president, although I did like Michelle, who really stepped up and did some good work. But this overblown, pasty-faced cretin? And his trophy wife (Malaria) who only needs to open her mouth and the world can see that she has the brains of a cannoli. Eeeesh!! Next thing you know they'll redecorate the White House to the Trump Tower standard: vulgar, ostentatious, and probably gold leaf everywhere. Someone will film the Oval Office and we'll see diamante (rhinestones, let's call them what they are), gold leaf, and anything and everything that screams lots of money but absolutely no taste whatsoever.
I was glad to see that right-thinking people everywhere have been demonstrating against this scum sucking reptile and his equally racist friends. I hope that people continue to do so, because he needs to be constantly reminded that he is the most reviled creature in American history. I always thought that Bush (GW-but probably the other one, too) was really scraping the bottom of the barrel. But now-someone has come along and lowered the bottom of the barrel.
I predict that after (possibly even during) the monster's first hundred days, the people who had the extremely bad judgment to vote him into power will be wanting to shoot him. Perhaps they should shoot themselves, because they voted for him.
There goes America. There goes the United States. Want to "make America great again"? We can only do that if we rid ourselves of the scourge of Donald Trump.
Next up is the Inaugural Ball. That's going to be fun, to see how many people with both brains and taste (and judgment) avoid it like the plague. Malaria will stand there, waiting for pasty-face to put his hand behind her back and wind her up. As for him, put him in a tuxedo and he'll look just like a constipated penguin with a bad combover.
I would say that everyone who cares about my country should leave, but don't come to this one. It's just as bad. The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing. In fact, the left hand doesn't even know where to find the right one.
Well-there is always Iceland. But now I'm thinking somewhat further afield. I wonder what Tahiti is like at this time of year...
Did I watch the inauguration? Seriously? Watch while an ignorant, racist, immature (look at his Twitter feeds. Does he seem like he has the maturity of a six year old?), misogynist, xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Semitic, anti-Muslim, anti-black, a liar, hypocrite, pervert-the country's premier douchebag-and he now has the nuclear codes. Did I miss anything?
What could possibly go wrong??
I didn't think much of Obama-I thought he was a mediocre president, although I did like Michelle, who really stepped up and did some good work. But this overblown, pasty-faced cretin? And his trophy wife (Malaria) who only needs to open her mouth and the world can see that she has the brains of a cannoli. Eeeesh!! Next thing you know they'll redecorate the White House to the Trump Tower standard: vulgar, ostentatious, and probably gold leaf everywhere. Someone will film the Oval Office and we'll see diamante (rhinestones, let's call them what they are), gold leaf, and anything and everything that screams lots of money but absolutely no taste whatsoever.
I was glad to see that right-thinking people everywhere have been demonstrating against this scum sucking reptile and his equally racist friends. I hope that people continue to do so, because he needs to be constantly reminded that he is the most reviled creature in American history. I always thought that Bush (GW-but probably the other one, too) was really scraping the bottom of the barrel. But now-someone has come along and lowered the bottom of the barrel.
I predict that after (possibly even during) the monster's first hundred days, the people who had the extremely bad judgment to vote him into power will be wanting to shoot him. Perhaps they should shoot themselves, because they voted for him.
There goes America. There goes the United States. Want to "make America great again"? We can only do that if we rid ourselves of the scourge of Donald Trump.
Next up is the Inaugural Ball. That's going to be fun, to see how many people with both brains and taste (and judgment) avoid it like the plague. Malaria will stand there, waiting for pasty-face to put his hand behind her back and wind her up. As for him, put him in a tuxedo and he'll look just like a constipated penguin with a bad combover.
I would say that everyone who cares about my country should leave, but don't come to this one. It's just as bad. The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing. In fact, the left hand doesn't even know where to find the right one.
Well-there is always Iceland. But now I'm thinking somewhat further afield. I wonder what Tahiti is like at this time of year...
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