Not dead yet-that is going to be an ongoing joke, I guess. Absolutely not dead! But I was poleaxed by the creeping lurgy. It went all around the hospital-that's how I got it. Even most of the nurses were out sick: a two-week-in-bed virus that knocked the hell out of everyone. Ugh.
I wish I could say that I got lots of sympathy-but no, everyone else was sick,too.
The last time I posted, I was pretty depressed. And I decided that I was boring everyone-especially myself- with moaning, whingeing, bellyaching, and kvetching. Kvetching-I heard someone say that recently, and I felt homesick. Kvetching is one of those great descriptive words that is loved by New Yorkers of all shapes, sizes, religions and ethnic backgrounds. Kvetching. I got fed up with kvetching. So I got up, and went for a very long walk. Uphill, downhill (downhill was easier), stumbling for awhile before I managed to achieve some form of balance...I had to be careful, because I had to avoid all the idiots who don't watch where they're going, but I didn't get catapulted into a shop window, or thrown in front of a bus (it would have been very embarrassing: the 43, very downmarket). But at the end of nearly two hours, I felt much better. The depression lifted, and my legs felt like they were going to drop off (kvetching).
I did all the things I was supposed to do the following week: more hospital visits, and now having to plan to have the implants removed. Two reconstructive operations (very painful. More kvetching), and now they have gone wrong and have to be removed. I won't have them replaced, because there is obviously a reason for the fact that my body is rejecting them. So, back to being flat chested. Oh, well.
I remember when I was in college, and all my friends were very well endowed-and I had to stuff my bra with tissues. True story: my friends didn't say anything, but one evening we were out with a bunch of guys and one of them kept sniffing, and started to ask if anyone had a kleenex. I naturally said, yeah, hang on a minute. As my girlfriends started laughing, I reached down and pulled out a tissue. Everyone was laughing-except the guy, who looked horrified, especially when I said "What? It's clean, it's dry, it's warm, what's the problem?" I dated him for two years. Sometimes I wonder if he ever thinks of me when he blows his nose...
I tried to get online at the library after a week of doing my due diligence. But the computers weren't working, which wasn't a surprise, given that the keyboards were sticky with some kind of biological matter of unknown origin. Gross-who knows who does what around those computers? The staff don't look-it's more than their jobs are worth to make any fuss. In this age of people knifing other people, and throwing acid in people's faces for no known reason, it's no surprise that nobody wants to get involved in any kinds of disputes.
I'm sad about the implants, but I gave all this-and everything-a great deal of thought while I was lying around, coughing and sniffing-and, yes, kvetching. I came to a few conclusions, too. I would rather be flat chested and have no pain-and no cancer-than have breasts and die. That to me is a no-brainer.
I also realized that last week marked exactly four years since the cancer diagnosis. And-I'm coming up to the seventh anniversary (if you can call it an anniversary) of the gentamicin, the gift that just keeps on giving. Of course I'm going to be depressed. I've had a life changing (and life-threatening) seven years. Now I say goodbye to the implants, too-and I really, really hope that this is the end of surgery. I like to feel that I'm turning a corner and not going headfirst into an oncoming express train.
I also realized that I procrastinated over getting a new computer and a new television (the old one is so old it has a slot for a VHS tape, and that hasn't worked since the machine ate one around ten years ago)because I was afraid that I wouldn't be around long enough to enjoy them. Silly? Probably. But I've had the fear that it would come back since the surgery four years ago. That doesn't go away-not for me, anyway.
So I decided that I used to be fearless, and I'm not enjoying life (or living life) by being afraid of everything. I'm working at being fearless again. I bought a 40 inch flat screen television, and I'm waiting for delivery. Now if I can find anything to watch, I can sit in front of it and stare until my eyeballs pop out. I bought a tablet ( touch screen, which I have to get used to, but it's so much better than sticky keys). And-here's another thing- I booked a flight for a week in New York. I'm going back to see everyone before Christmas. New telly? New tablet? A chance to show everyone how far I've come? I can't give up now!
The first place I stop when I reach JFK is the first place I'm going now: Starbucks. Maybe I'll see Trump-so I can punch him in the face.
Sunday, 14 May 2017
Thursday, 20 April 2017
When the black dog bites-bite back
That bloody dog! Just when I think I'm okay, everything is beginning to work out, I'm finally turning the corner after seven years of excruciating hell-bang! Something else happens. And it did, and that's why I haven't been online since the last time I wrote.
Oh, yeah-and I hope everyone had a happy Easter, ate lots of chocolate, bit the head off a chocolate bunny...and I stress "chocolate bunny"! I said that to someone before Easter, and she was clearly horrified. I had to repeat "CHOCOLATE BUNNY"-thinking that people do really hear what they want to hear, just as they remember things the way they want to remember them (even if those things have no relation to reality). Why would I expect anything more? They're idiots.
Well-back to depression. This one was a big one, and I had to sit and get through it-because I know exactly what triggered it. One of the implants might be leaking. And both implants are going to have to come out. More surgery. How delightful. Every time it looks like I'm finally free and clear, something else seems to crop up. And, because the NHS is in such a mess, I have to live with severe pain and wait for a surgery date. What a bugger.
Depression is very insidious. It hits you like a ton of shit with absolutely no warning. I've got a neighbor who had a liver transplant, and is doing very well, but told me that he has suffered with depression for most of his life. I asked him how he deals with it; he said that he just hides, withdraws, stays away from everyone as much as he can. He also takes antidepressants. Not for me, those. And I have spent over a week hiding out, and doing nothing, and I can tell you-it's boring. Just-boring.
Depression is like some people (you probably know quite a few): it sucks the joy out of everything. The world looks grey, people seem nastier than usual, the world news-well, when the dog bites, the best thing to do is ignore the news, it just makes things worse.
So this morning I dragged myself out of bed (practically kicking and screaming) and decided that enough is enough, I've fought very hard to survive, and I am not going to give in to such blackness. I was always positive, always trying to find a way through anything bad that happened (not only to me, but to my friends and family, too), always the person people came to for advice and for a laugh. My jokes might be terrible, but they always helped someone (usually me). These two weeks were tough.
What I find most interesting is that I have been through enough physical trauma, pain and suffering in these few years to enable me to change my perspective. Of course, I will still make fun of the Brits, because they deserve it-and they're idiots, so it's so easy to pick on sitting targets. Hey, I had a belly full of it for enough years that I feel entitled to now answer back. Most of them are too stupid to get it anyway.
My change in perspective concerns disabled people-whether they're physically or mentally disabled. Case in point: a few weeks ago when I witnessed firsthand someone screaming and having a total meltdown on a bus. That was scary-and I could have said something, but I chose to keep my mouth shut. Never argue with people who are clearly mentally unstable-unless you want to risk getting stabbed or beaten severely. And physically disabled people-I've seen people lurching down the road, staggering from side to side. I always thought they were drunk, or on drugs, and how could they do that so early in the morning...but when I first came out of the hospital after the gentamicin disaster, I couldn't walk at all. Then I had a physio who walked outside with me, keeping close in case I fell over (which I did very often. I still have bruises to prove it). I staggered, and lurched, and heard some very nasty (and very loud) comments from the general idiot population, and that was really very hurtful. Now I realize that these guys just might have a condition that causes loss of balance-a condition that has nothing to do with drugs or drink. I find that I am more tolerant.
Nobody really, really knows whether anyone else is suffering (unless they do it at top volume). So I cut people some slack and I keep my mouth shut. Besides-open your mouth here and you could easily end up in the hospital-or the morgue. It's no safer here than anywhere else.
So, that has been my time away, as it were. I looked at my calendar this morning and had the terrible realization that the first four months of this year are nearly gone-in a flash. And in mid-July I have my final assessment over at Queen Square, where I go through all the original balance tests to see how far I have progressed in seven years. So I've got to put my foot down and get moving.
Of course, this could all be rather pointless if that ignorant, self-serving, arrogant warmonger nukes Korea and starts a third world war. Then you can find me hiding under my desk-with a large cup of Starbucks in one hand and a bag of Kettle Chips in the other.
Oh, yeah-and I hope everyone had a happy Easter, ate lots of chocolate, bit the head off a chocolate bunny...and I stress "chocolate bunny"! I said that to someone before Easter, and she was clearly horrified. I had to repeat "CHOCOLATE BUNNY"-thinking that people do really hear what they want to hear, just as they remember things the way they want to remember them (even if those things have no relation to reality). Why would I expect anything more? They're idiots.
Well-back to depression. This one was a big one, and I had to sit and get through it-because I know exactly what triggered it. One of the implants might be leaking. And both implants are going to have to come out. More surgery. How delightful. Every time it looks like I'm finally free and clear, something else seems to crop up. And, because the NHS is in such a mess, I have to live with severe pain and wait for a surgery date. What a bugger.
Depression is very insidious. It hits you like a ton of shit with absolutely no warning. I've got a neighbor who had a liver transplant, and is doing very well, but told me that he has suffered with depression for most of his life. I asked him how he deals with it; he said that he just hides, withdraws, stays away from everyone as much as he can. He also takes antidepressants. Not for me, those. And I have spent over a week hiding out, and doing nothing, and I can tell you-it's boring. Just-boring.
Depression is like some people (you probably know quite a few): it sucks the joy out of everything. The world looks grey, people seem nastier than usual, the world news-well, when the dog bites, the best thing to do is ignore the news, it just makes things worse.
So this morning I dragged myself out of bed (practically kicking and screaming) and decided that enough is enough, I've fought very hard to survive, and I am not going to give in to such blackness. I was always positive, always trying to find a way through anything bad that happened (not only to me, but to my friends and family, too), always the person people came to for advice and for a laugh. My jokes might be terrible, but they always helped someone (usually me). These two weeks were tough.
What I find most interesting is that I have been through enough physical trauma, pain and suffering in these few years to enable me to change my perspective. Of course, I will still make fun of the Brits, because they deserve it-and they're idiots, so it's so easy to pick on sitting targets. Hey, I had a belly full of it for enough years that I feel entitled to now answer back. Most of them are too stupid to get it anyway.
My change in perspective concerns disabled people-whether they're physically or mentally disabled. Case in point: a few weeks ago when I witnessed firsthand someone screaming and having a total meltdown on a bus. That was scary-and I could have said something, but I chose to keep my mouth shut. Never argue with people who are clearly mentally unstable-unless you want to risk getting stabbed or beaten severely. And physically disabled people-I've seen people lurching down the road, staggering from side to side. I always thought they were drunk, or on drugs, and how could they do that so early in the morning...but when I first came out of the hospital after the gentamicin disaster, I couldn't walk at all. Then I had a physio who walked outside with me, keeping close in case I fell over (which I did very often. I still have bruises to prove it). I staggered, and lurched, and heard some very nasty (and very loud) comments from the general idiot population, and that was really very hurtful. Now I realize that these guys just might have a condition that causes loss of balance-a condition that has nothing to do with drugs or drink. I find that I am more tolerant.
Nobody really, really knows whether anyone else is suffering (unless they do it at top volume). So I cut people some slack and I keep my mouth shut. Besides-open your mouth here and you could easily end up in the hospital-or the morgue. It's no safer here than anywhere else.
So, that has been my time away, as it were. I looked at my calendar this morning and had the terrible realization that the first four months of this year are nearly gone-in a flash. And in mid-July I have my final assessment over at Queen Square, where I go through all the original balance tests to see how far I have progressed in seven years. So I've got to put my foot down and get moving.
Of course, this could all be rather pointless if that ignorant, self-serving, arrogant warmonger nukes Korea and starts a third world war. Then you can find me hiding under my desk-with a large cup of Starbucks in one hand and a bag of Kettle Chips in the other.
Saturday, 8 April 2017
We're here. We brought beer.
Budweiser has arrived-actually, Bud Light has arrived. That is their slogan: we're here. We brought beer. We also had a lot of London's red buses painted an interesting shade of blue to make the point. Personally, with all the microbreweries around, I think that the Budweiser people are very, very brave. And I remember using beer as a hair rinse when I was in college (it was great, and no, I didn't drink it afterwards).
Seeing blue buses-seeing so many buses with advertising plastered all over them (must be hugely expensive)-reminded me of the old Routemaster buses. You can now find them in old movies: double decker, red, no ads on the sides, a conductor (horrors! A conductor!) who had his little ticket machine and who took the money and issued a ticket when you came on board. It was much more romantic then-certainly a lot simpler. Then they discontinued the Routemaster (idiots) and we got all manner of buses to entertain (and frustrate) us. Bring back the Routemaster, I say. And they say: good luck with that. Oh, well. Progress.?
It's been a week of social and political fighting and punchups, and I have finally learned to just keep my head down, keep schtum, avoid discussions with anyone about anything except the weather. That will probably last another week (or maybe a day) and then I'll be back to voicing my opinion. Most of the people in my area don't speak English, so my opinions should be pretty safe.
I'm being bounced out of nearly every clinic-and I've gone from being a professional patient in eight hospitals to being a patient in one. I'm just about (at the end of this month) done with most of the consultants, only to be monitored by a few (very few, thank goodness) either every six months or once a year. I can handle annual visits; it's going to be a question of "how are you? Still alive? Good, see you in a year's time". So I will have lots of time for myself. I'm so used to spending nearly every day at one clinic or another (most of it waiting), I will have to decide what to do next. That is a good thing.
I got very depressed, and very frustrated, knowing that I spent more time in hospital waiting areas than at home. And these last seven years have been tortuous. I nearly quit several times. By "quit" I mean I thought seriously about stopping all the medications, stopping all the hospital visits, selling up and just travelling somewhere, even though I knew that I would be ending my life sooner, rather than later. But I hung on, because I am just too bloody-minded for words. I didn't go through all the pain and suffering to just roll over, quit, wait to die. No, that isn't me at all. So I played the good little patient, went home and punched the pillows a few times (a few million times) in frustration, cried a little, and kept going. I'm glad I did, because I'm coming out the other side. I've got a few glitches, but nothing serious, and I'm really very healthy (finally. For my age, as they have to tell me. Grrr).
I had a small win the other day. I know it's a small one, but hey, a win is a win, no matter what size it is. I held my crutch up and walked about 150 yards, unaided, on a road that had traffic going past me. Did I get dizzy? Once. Did I stop? Nope. Did I fall over? No. That tells me that I am still improving, even though the improvements are so small that I don't notice them. Other people, people I haven't seen in awhile, notice them. That tells me to be positive and to keep going. I might get frustrated and think about giving up, but I only think about it, I don't do it. I think I will put a sign on the wall that says "Never give up". Even after seven years, I must not quit now.
I hope that Bud Light is a huge success in this country. Somebody has to pay for those blue buses (it could be worse. They could be puce).
Seeing blue buses-seeing so many buses with advertising plastered all over them (must be hugely expensive)-reminded me of the old Routemaster buses. You can now find them in old movies: double decker, red, no ads on the sides, a conductor (horrors! A conductor!) who had his little ticket machine and who took the money and issued a ticket when you came on board. It was much more romantic then-certainly a lot simpler. Then they discontinued the Routemaster (idiots) and we got all manner of buses to entertain (and frustrate) us. Bring back the Routemaster, I say. And they say: good luck with that. Oh, well. Progress.?
It's been a week of social and political fighting and punchups, and I have finally learned to just keep my head down, keep schtum, avoid discussions with anyone about anything except the weather. That will probably last another week (or maybe a day) and then I'll be back to voicing my opinion. Most of the people in my area don't speak English, so my opinions should be pretty safe.
I'm being bounced out of nearly every clinic-and I've gone from being a professional patient in eight hospitals to being a patient in one. I'm just about (at the end of this month) done with most of the consultants, only to be monitored by a few (very few, thank goodness) either every six months or once a year. I can handle annual visits; it's going to be a question of "how are you? Still alive? Good, see you in a year's time". So I will have lots of time for myself. I'm so used to spending nearly every day at one clinic or another (most of it waiting), I will have to decide what to do next. That is a good thing.
I got very depressed, and very frustrated, knowing that I spent more time in hospital waiting areas than at home. And these last seven years have been tortuous. I nearly quit several times. By "quit" I mean I thought seriously about stopping all the medications, stopping all the hospital visits, selling up and just travelling somewhere, even though I knew that I would be ending my life sooner, rather than later. But I hung on, because I am just too bloody-minded for words. I didn't go through all the pain and suffering to just roll over, quit, wait to die. No, that isn't me at all. So I played the good little patient, went home and punched the pillows a few times (a few million times) in frustration, cried a little, and kept going. I'm glad I did, because I'm coming out the other side. I've got a few glitches, but nothing serious, and I'm really very healthy (finally. For my age, as they have to tell me. Grrr).
I had a small win the other day. I know it's a small one, but hey, a win is a win, no matter what size it is. I held my crutch up and walked about 150 yards, unaided, on a road that had traffic going past me. Did I get dizzy? Once. Did I stop? Nope. Did I fall over? No. That tells me that I am still improving, even though the improvements are so small that I don't notice them. Other people, people I haven't seen in awhile, notice them. That tells me to be positive and to keep going. I might get frustrated and think about giving up, but I only think about it, I don't do it. I think I will put a sign on the wall that says "Never give up". Even after seven years, I must not quit now.
I hope that Bud Light is a huge success in this country. Somebody has to pay for those blue buses (it could be worse. They could be puce).
Saturday, 1 April 2017
Brexit, Brexit, who's got the Brexit?
I know, this is a very serious business-but Brexit does sound like a cereal-or a biscuit. Have a cup of tea. Would you like a Brexit with that?
Just about everyone on the planet knows that Article 50 was triggered on Wednesday. Now all the weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth is really being cranked up, and all the remainers (known forever as "remoaners") are doing their best to have Brexit overturned. As if...the whole thing seems a bit silly now. For 44 years, Britain has been part of the EU-and now we are leaving. 44 years-that lasted more than most marriages I know (including my own). Nobody-and I do mean "nobody"-really knows for certain what is going to happen when we finally leave. It's driving people crazy.
The most hated prime ministers in a hundred years (or more)- Tony Blair and David Cameron have surfaced like the rats they are to give everyone their concerted opinion. Nobody wants their opinion, they are the odious creatures who caused Brexit in the first place-Brexit and Britain becoming very close to a third world country. Someone needs to give them both a good slap and tell them to shut up. Even the very rich celebrities -JK Rowling, who doesn't seem to do anything for anyone but herself, and likes to pontificate every chance she gets-and Piers Morgan, who was unceremoniously fired from his newspaper job for falsifying evidence and creating a news story that was a complete fabrication-and someone called Lily Allen, who doesn't seem very bright. They're all out in force, and it doesn't affect them, as far as anyone knows.
Until we actually leave the EU-until there is a strategy in place-people should just button it. And the media idiots are nothing less than inflammatory, causing people (who, let's face it, aren't very bright and believe everything they're told anyway) to panic. No panic! Wait and see, people, wait and see.
My news is more optimistic this week. After six weeks of worrying about motor neurone (bearing in mind that I had the feeling that was not the case anyway, so it was counter-productive to give the possibility more time than it deserved-which was none), I went to the hospital and had all the tests. This was on Wednesday; while the press was stirring up hysteria, I was having needles and electrodes stuck in me. I've got the bruising to prove it. I had to wait a day for the final verdict, but the doctor who did the testing said that he didn't think there was any sign of motor neurone.
I had my immunoglobulin infusions on Thursday, and sprinted (as well as I can sprint, given the circumstances) to neurology to get the final verdict. I had a good talk with the neurologist, who told me that I do not have motor neurone. All that drama, all those sleepless nights-for nothing. He also told me that the pinched ulnar nerve I have in the left elbow is getting worse. This, he said, was from years of sports, doing bicep curls (now banned, sadly), and generally abusing my body. He went on to say that constant bending of my arms, elbows on the table, working at the computer-that is the abuse that causes a pinched nerve. We don't realize how delicate the body really is.
I have to see him again in six months, and if the weakness and pain grow worse in that time, he is going to convince me to have surgery. More surgery-what a thrill!! Keep your arm straight, he said: no holding heavy shopping, no doing weights with that arm, etc, etc. So boring. It's more fun to watch the punchups between politicians.
I'll try acupuncture (my friend thinks that might work), and start searching for more alternatives to surgery to fix this problem-and I'll keep you posted on my progress. I'm determined, since I have come such a long way, to stay healthy without any surgical intervention. Besides-hospitals are filled with sick people.
I'm so happy that I don't have anything that will be ultimately fatal-at least, at the moment. I'm being cautiously optimistic that the light I'm finally seeing at the end of the tunnel isn't a speeding Eurostar.
Now it's time to go to Starbucks, my weekly indulgence (sometimes my daily indulgence). I've decided to avoid (as much as possible) the supposition, the conjecture, the inflammatory opinions feebly disguised as "news", and go for a long walk. I can. I must. I'll do my very best not to get run over.
Just about everyone on the planet knows that Article 50 was triggered on Wednesday. Now all the weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth is really being cranked up, and all the remainers (known forever as "remoaners") are doing their best to have Brexit overturned. As if...the whole thing seems a bit silly now. For 44 years, Britain has been part of the EU-and now we are leaving. 44 years-that lasted more than most marriages I know (including my own). Nobody-and I do mean "nobody"-really knows for certain what is going to happen when we finally leave. It's driving people crazy.
The most hated prime ministers in a hundred years (or more)- Tony Blair and David Cameron have surfaced like the rats they are to give everyone their concerted opinion. Nobody wants their opinion, they are the odious creatures who caused Brexit in the first place-Brexit and Britain becoming very close to a third world country. Someone needs to give them both a good slap and tell them to shut up. Even the very rich celebrities -JK Rowling, who doesn't seem to do anything for anyone but herself, and likes to pontificate every chance she gets-and Piers Morgan, who was unceremoniously fired from his newspaper job for falsifying evidence and creating a news story that was a complete fabrication-and someone called Lily Allen, who doesn't seem very bright. They're all out in force, and it doesn't affect them, as far as anyone knows.
Until we actually leave the EU-until there is a strategy in place-people should just button it. And the media idiots are nothing less than inflammatory, causing people (who, let's face it, aren't very bright and believe everything they're told anyway) to panic. No panic! Wait and see, people, wait and see.
My news is more optimistic this week. After six weeks of worrying about motor neurone (bearing in mind that I had the feeling that was not the case anyway, so it was counter-productive to give the possibility more time than it deserved-which was none), I went to the hospital and had all the tests. This was on Wednesday; while the press was stirring up hysteria, I was having needles and electrodes stuck in me. I've got the bruising to prove it. I had to wait a day for the final verdict, but the doctor who did the testing said that he didn't think there was any sign of motor neurone.
I had my immunoglobulin infusions on Thursday, and sprinted (as well as I can sprint, given the circumstances) to neurology to get the final verdict. I had a good talk with the neurologist, who told me that I do not have motor neurone. All that drama, all those sleepless nights-for nothing. He also told me that the pinched ulnar nerve I have in the left elbow is getting worse. This, he said, was from years of sports, doing bicep curls (now banned, sadly), and generally abusing my body. He went on to say that constant bending of my arms, elbows on the table, working at the computer-that is the abuse that causes a pinched nerve. We don't realize how delicate the body really is.
I have to see him again in six months, and if the weakness and pain grow worse in that time, he is going to convince me to have surgery. More surgery-what a thrill!! Keep your arm straight, he said: no holding heavy shopping, no doing weights with that arm, etc, etc. So boring. It's more fun to watch the punchups between politicians.
I'll try acupuncture (my friend thinks that might work), and start searching for more alternatives to surgery to fix this problem-and I'll keep you posted on my progress. I'm determined, since I have come such a long way, to stay healthy without any surgical intervention. Besides-hospitals are filled with sick people.
I'm so happy that I don't have anything that will be ultimately fatal-at least, at the moment. I'm being cautiously optimistic that the light I'm finally seeing at the end of the tunnel isn't a speeding Eurostar.
Now it's time to go to Starbucks, my weekly indulgence (sometimes my daily indulgence). I've decided to avoid (as much as possible) the supposition, the conjecture, the inflammatory opinions feebly disguised as "news", and go for a long walk. I can. I must. I'll do my very best not to get run over.
Saturday, 25 March 2017
London under lockdown (and meltdown)
Another day, another terrorist attack. I was merrily blogging on Wednesday and got home (my second home: the flat, and it's much easier to just call it "home"-because I'm a really lazy typist!) to discover that another lunatic killed three people and injured many more. This time it was at Westminster, and the sick piece of crap killed a policeman, someone who was just minding his own business. Wrong place, wrong time.
Now the fatality count has risen to four-and I wonder how much higher it's going to get...I also wonder how long it'll take the police to find a pair and arm their policemen (and women) to give them at least a fighting chance.
It's all so wrong. I have been keeping up with the news about this latest terrorist, someone who was born in this country and radicalized somewhere along the way. I had a flashback to last week's racially motivated situation on the bus, and I wonder if people who are clearly mentally ill are easy prey for radicalization. Or-is that being too simplistic?
The city was on lockdown. Westminster was filled with police, forensic people...you name it. But as quickly as the city was locked down-and the threat level was raised to severe-people were out in front of the media getting their fifteen minutes of fame, saying that they wouldn't be cowed. No-blown up, stabbed, run over, but not cowed. Such bravado after the fact. The mayor's blustering made me want to run for the sick bag.
I went to see my friend on Thursday, and I took the train from Liverpool Street Station-a place that has so many commuters at any one time, it should be a perfect target for terrorists. Were there any police, or army, was there any presence at all? Nope, nothing. Nada. Zip. We could all have been blown to pieces, and there was nobody there to deal with it. Amazing.
How do we deal with what the media call the "so-called Islamic State"- which isn't a state, and has nothing to do with Islam, only with nutters who like killing innocent people? Can we really eradicate those who have been indoctrinated to such a degree that they have lost their humanity, and seem to kill for the joy of killing? I wish I had the answer to that. I think a lot of people wish we had the answer to that.
Meanwhile, we can listen to all the bluster, and the false bravado, and the amazing amount of bullshit being spouted by the government, the media-and just about everyone else in the limelight (or desperately wanting to be in the limelight), or we can simply be vigilant, go about our daily business, and understand that by causing trauma, drama and chaos, the terrorists are winning.
I said that I have had seven years of hell, and I stand by that. I've spent so much time at different hospitals, in different clinics, being poked, prodded, irradiated, scanned, bled, and whatever, that I joked several times that I should just move in, since I spend very little time at home. Have I enjoyed it? Hell, no, it has been incredibly frustrating to be everyone's lab rat. I resented it so much that I was ready (several times) to just jack it all in, refuse all treatments, and tests, and go off and live something resembling a life, even if it meant I only had a year in which to do it all. But-something told me not to do that. Was it survival instinct? Or stupidity? Bloody-mindedness? Or the fact that I would miss season 8 of The Walking Dead?
I've just been discharged (yesterday) from the cardiology clinic. The consultant was a bit gruff, but perhaps that is just his way-or he wanted to just drill in the fact that he doesn't want to monitor me, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, even though the Royal London twits said otherwise. My heart is great. If I die prematurely, it won't be because of my heart. This, of course, is fantastic to hear, since my heart is one of my top ten organs, and I'm rather fond if it.
I sat last night and looked at my diary, and realized that from the first week in April, I have practically no hospital appointments. I have the usual antibody replacement infusions, and the odd consultants-but I'm nearly there, nearly free, for the first time in seven years. Booyah. Next week I have the tests to show that I don't have motor neurone-or anything else, for that matter-and then that's it. I have to think about how I'm going to celebrate-obviously try not to get myself blown to pieces somewhere. Or run over. Huh. The mind boggles.
I've worked so hard to get where I am now. I'm not finished yet. My next step is to start looking for vestibular support groups and see if we can, together, start a class action suit against the makers of gentamicin. But-I won't be obsessive about it. I finally have a chance to start living, and by God, I'm going to take it.
Now the fatality count has risen to four-and I wonder how much higher it's going to get...I also wonder how long it'll take the police to find a pair and arm their policemen (and women) to give them at least a fighting chance.
It's all so wrong. I have been keeping up with the news about this latest terrorist, someone who was born in this country and radicalized somewhere along the way. I had a flashback to last week's racially motivated situation on the bus, and I wonder if people who are clearly mentally ill are easy prey for radicalization. Or-is that being too simplistic?
The city was on lockdown. Westminster was filled with police, forensic people...you name it. But as quickly as the city was locked down-and the threat level was raised to severe-people were out in front of the media getting their fifteen minutes of fame, saying that they wouldn't be cowed. No-blown up, stabbed, run over, but not cowed. Such bravado after the fact. The mayor's blustering made me want to run for the sick bag.
I went to see my friend on Thursday, and I took the train from Liverpool Street Station-a place that has so many commuters at any one time, it should be a perfect target for terrorists. Were there any police, or army, was there any presence at all? Nope, nothing. Nada. Zip. We could all have been blown to pieces, and there was nobody there to deal with it. Amazing.
How do we deal with what the media call the "so-called Islamic State"- which isn't a state, and has nothing to do with Islam, only with nutters who like killing innocent people? Can we really eradicate those who have been indoctrinated to such a degree that they have lost their humanity, and seem to kill for the joy of killing? I wish I had the answer to that. I think a lot of people wish we had the answer to that.
Meanwhile, we can listen to all the bluster, and the false bravado, and the amazing amount of bullshit being spouted by the government, the media-and just about everyone else in the limelight (or desperately wanting to be in the limelight), or we can simply be vigilant, go about our daily business, and understand that by causing trauma, drama and chaos, the terrorists are winning.
I said that I have had seven years of hell, and I stand by that. I've spent so much time at different hospitals, in different clinics, being poked, prodded, irradiated, scanned, bled, and whatever, that I joked several times that I should just move in, since I spend very little time at home. Have I enjoyed it? Hell, no, it has been incredibly frustrating to be everyone's lab rat. I resented it so much that I was ready (several times) to just jack it all in, refuse all treatments, and tests, and go off and live something resembling a life, even if it meant I only had a year in which to do it all. But-something told me not to do that. Was it survival instinct? Or stupidity? Bloody-mindedness? Or the fact that I would miss season 8 of The Walking Dead?
I've just been discharged (yesterday) from the cardiology clinic. The consultant was a bit gruff, but perhaps that is just his way-or he wanted to just drill in the fact that he doesn't want to monitor me, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, even though the Royal London twits said otherwise. My heart is great. If I die prematurely, it won't be because of my heart. This, of course, is fantastic to hear, since my heart is one of my top ten organs, and I'm rather fond if it.
I sat last night and looked at my diary, and realized that from the first week in April, I have practically no hospital appointments. I have the usual antibody replacement infusions, and the odd consultants-but I'm nearly there, nearly free, for the first time in seven years. Booyah. Next week I have the tests to show that I don't have motor neurone-or anything else, for that matter-and then that's it. I have to think about how I'm going to celebrate-obviously try not to get myself blown to pieces somewhere. Or run over. Huh. The mind boggles.
I've worked so hard to get where I am now. I'm not finished yet. My next step is to start looking for vestibular support groups and see if we can, together, start a class action suit against the makers of gentamicin. But-I won't be obsessive about it. I finally have a chance to start living, and by God, I'm going to take it.
Wednesday, 22 March 2017
Just when you thought it was safe to come out of the water...
Another day, another day of head down, keep mouth firmly shut.
It's been a week of-well, almost a holiday, because I have no hospital appointments this week. None. It's been seven years, and this is about as rare as finding hens' teeth. Bearing in mind last week's dealing with food poisoning, followed closely by witnessing what may (or may not) have been a racially motivated confrontation, I'd say this has been an okay week. So far. But it's only Wednesday, so anything can happen. Cynic? Moi?
I told my friend in Ireland about the two women on the bus-and she said that it happens everywhere, that people have a chip on their shoulder, or they're feeling like they are entitled to be special-or they're just batshit crazy (she said crazy. I added the "batshit"). I seriously doubt that anyone in his right mind would say the word they alleged that he said-on a packed bus, with children present, and two clearly mentally disturbed people standing there, just obviously looking to start a fight.We all saw it-and, wisely, nobody said anything. Nobody wants to be stabbed, and that happens here all the time.
That did teach me something, however. It showed me that I must never call anyone who crashes into me deliberately (and you would be surprised how often that happens. I should be wearing body armor) an imbecile. Who knows who is armed, or who will just turn around and punch me in the face? I like my face the way it is, thanks. So I must show more restraint and just deliver a filthy look, without the verbal abuse, regardless of how much it is deserved.
And-it's back to the gym, no more goofing off. In July I get retested, and I really want to be a lot further on than I am now.
You'll like this (but not a lot). Last week I was early for my infusions, and I was just turning the corner of the clinic when the Anti-Christ came around the corner with his patient. We looked at each other and said good morning. Personally, I would rather have spat in his eye, but I think that I'm beyond that now (hopefully).
Bucky Buckland complained about the blog in an effort, I think, to have me thrown out of the Royal Free, too-but he failed miserably. Apparently I'm very popular in the clinic, and the staff like treating me-or so I'm told. They, of course, haven't seen me go for the jugular, which I did with Bucky, who absolutely deserved it. So I can afford to smile.
It's been a week of-well, almost a holiday, because I have no hospital appointments this week. None. It's been seven years, and this is about as rare as finding hens' teeth. Bearing in mind last week's dealing with food poisoning, followed closely by witnessing what may (or may not) have been a racially motivated confrontation, I'd say this has been an okay week. So far. But it's only Wednesday, so anything can happen. Cynic? Moi?
I told my friend in Ireland about the two women on the bus-and she said that it happens everywhere, that people have a chip on their shoulder, or they're feeling like they are entitled to be special-or they're just batshit crazy (she said crazy. I added the "batshit"). I seriously doubt that anyone in his right mind would say the word they alleged that he said-on a packed bus, with children present, and two clearly mentally disturbed people standing there, just obviously looking to start a fight.We all saw it-and, wisely, nobody said anything. Nobody wants to be stabbed, and that happens here all the time.
That did teach me something, however. It showed me that I must never call anyone who crashes into me deliberately (and you would be surprised how often that happens. I should be wearing body armor) an imbecile. Who knows who is armed, or who will just turn around and punch me in the face? I like my face the way it is, thanks. So I must show more restraint and just deliver a filthy look, without the verbal abuse, regardless of how much it is deserved.
And-it's back to the gym, no more goofing off. In July I get retested, and I really want to be a lot further on than I am now.
You'll like this (but not a lot). Last week I was early for my infusions, and I was just turning the corner of the clinic when the Anti-Christ came around the corner with his patient. We looked at each other and said good morning. Personally, I would rather have spat in his eye, but I think that I'm beyond that now (hopefully).
Bucky Buckland complained about the blog in an effort, I think, to have me thrown out of the Royal Free, too-but he failed miserably. Apparently I'm very popular in the clinic, and the staff like treating me-or so I'm told. They, of course, haven't seen me go for the jugular, which I did with Bucky, who absolutely deserved it. So I can afford to smile.
Saturday, 18 March 2017
Not such a muggins after all...
I'm a day late in wishing everyone a happy St. Patrick's Day-late as usual, rather like that well known airline, Every Landing Always Late. But this time, I have a reasonably okay excuse: CBT, also known as Chinese Bad Tummy. Food poisoning. My friend and I decided to go for a Chinese, and that was fine, except that I completely forgot that there is a reason why I haven't been to this local place in over two years-and that was the reason! I won't elaborate: if you've ever had a bad meal out, you already know the consequences.
So, I hope that everyone got wasted, drunk and disorderly (if that's your thing, I hope you went for it), and as long as you didn't hurt yourself or anyone else-or topple into oncoming traffic, or catapult yourself out of a window, I don't see the harm in celebrating. The pubs around me were filled with people who were so paralytic they were gripping the walls, the floors, the bars, each other...it was great fun to watch, at least for as long as I could, under the circumstances!
I've been feeling like a real sucker for awhile; it isn't the first time I've been played, and it probably won't be the last, because I know what it feels like to have cancer and have no help or support (at least, in this country; my friends were very supportive, but they're all across the pond, which does a lot, but not when I need someone nearby).
I discovered - just before the food poisoning-that my neighbor does, indeed, have cancer, and it seems to have metastasized, because he was too afraid to go to get it checked out. This came from his neighbor, who is his closest friend-and, although I criticized him in my last post, it turns out that he is badly in debt, so he couldn't help out. Now Mr. X (yes, I know-another one) is in hospital awaiting surgery, my friend (the one who said I'm a muggins) has gotten rid of the stuff that Mr. X wanted to sell, I got some money back, and everyone's happy. Well-Mr. X can't be too happy, but at least he is being looked after. So things turned out okay (ish) in the end.
Things aren't so great at home, though. Apart from freak snow storms, Trump is still screwing up our country. Nobody shot him yet-unfortunately. What he needs is some Chinese food-laced with rat poison. Very appropriate, I'd say. But, of course, I am a pacifist...
Things are pretty much the same here. The Scottish government is battling Parliament, train drivers are striking, transport is a nightmare for people who spend thousands of pounds every year to commute to work, people are just killing each other for no good reason, and the NHS is in such bad shape that nobody knows how long it will be before the entire system collapses. It's the usual: SSDD (Same Shit, Different Day).
As for me, I'm keeping my head down and trying to avoid being caught in the crossfire. I was coming back from the hospital the other day, and two black women started screaming at some white guy, claiming that he called them the "n" word. They screamed obscenities and threats at top volume, and they were so far over the top that most of the rest of us (the bus was full, and there were a lot of young children on it, too) became very apprehensive. These two deranged nutters just kept screaming, and threatening. If they'd been sane, they would have taken it down a few dozen notches. But he said that he didn't call them anything, and they started cursing at him and at everyone else. If you'd heard them, you would have thought they'd escaped from some mental asylum. And they were looking around, trying to find allies in their abuse; the rest of us (wisely, I thought) didn't give them the satisfaction of engaging with them in any way. I thought there would be cheering when the two loonies left the bus-but no, we all just breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Why didn't the driver kick them off? Because they were clearly demented, and he wasn't going to risk his life getting involved. Too many innocent people have died for much less.
I felt badly about this for a couple of days-although I felt worse about my poor, sick guts-and I can't help but think that people like these two should be under sedation-and treatment. But the NHS is crippled, and slowly dying. A friend of mine called me the other day-I'd left him a message asking him about his wife, who was seriously ill with a malignant brain tumor-and updated me. He said that the chemotherapy worked, and she seems to be turning the corner, although they've now found a new tumor (but a smaller one). He said that he didn't think they would do another course of chemotherapy on her because of monetary constraints, but they will try radiation. I was shocked: no chemo because they're trying to save money? Don't lives matter? Obviously not.
So there you have it: the update. Next week I have one hospital appointment, the following week I will (I hope!) be told that this motor neurone thing is a load of nonsense, and for the next few months (apart from the infusions, which will be for life), I am a free woman. Yikes! All that cleaning, I will be busy! And back to the gym.
I've had seven years of hell, and seven years of being what I call a "professional patient". I've spent more time in hospital clinics (most of it waiting to see someone) than I have doing anything else. Now I feel like I'm being paroled. Of course, that is usually when something bad happens-so maybe I'll just wait and see. Starbucks is calling.
So, I hope that everyone got wasted, drunk and disorderly (if that's your thing, I hope you went for it), and as long as you didn't hurt yourself or anyone else-or topple into oncoming traffic, or catapult yourself out of a window, I don't see the harm in celebrating. The pubs around me were filled with people who were so paralytic they were gripping the walls, the floors, the bars, each other...it was great fun to watch, at least for as long as I could, under the circumstances!
I've been feeling like a real sucker for awhile; it isn't the first time I've been played, and it probably won't be the last, because I know what it feels like to have cancer and have no help or support (at least, in this country; my friends were very supportive, but they're all across the pond, which does a lot, but not when I need someone nearby).
I discovered - just before the food poisoning-that my neighbor does, indeed, have cancer, and it seems to have metastasized, because he was too afraid to go to get it checked out. This came from his neighbor, who is his closest friend-and, although I criticized him in my last post, it turns out that he is badly in debt, so he couldn't help out. Now Mr. X (yes, I know-another one) is in hospital awaiting surgery, my friend (the one who said I'm a muggins) has gotten rid of the stuff that Mr. X wanted to sell, I got some money back, and everyone's happy. Well-Mr. X can't be too happy, but at least he is being looked after. So things turned out okay (ish) in the end.
Things aren't so great at home, though. Apart from freak snow storms, Trump is still screwing up our country. Nobody shot him yet-unfortunately. What he needs is some Chinese food-laced with rat poison. Very appropriate, I'd say. But, of course, I am a pacifist...
Things are pretty much the same here. The Scottish government is battling Parliament, train drivers are striking, transport is a nightmare for people who spend thousands of pounds every year to commute to work, people are just killing each other for no good reason, and the NHS is in such bad shape that nobody knows how long it will be before the entire system collapses. It's the usual: SSDD (Same Shit, Different Day).
As for me, I'm keeping my head down and trying to avoid being caught in the crossfire. I was coming back from the hospital the other day, and two black women started screaming at some white guy, claiming that he called them the "n" word. They screamed obscenities and threats at top volume, and they were so far over the top that most of the rest of us (the bus was full, and there were a lot of young children on it, too) became very apprehensive. These two deranged nutters just kept screaming, and threatening. If they'd been sane, they would have taken it down a few dozen notches. But he said that he didn't call them anything, and they started cursing at him and at everyone else. If you'd heard them, you would have thought they'd escaped from some mental asylum. And they were looking around, trying to find allies in their abuse; the rest of us (wisely, I thought) didn't give them the satisfaction of engaging with them in any way. I thought there would be cheering when the two loonies left the bus-but no, we all just breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Why didn't the driver kick them off? Because they were clearly demented, and he wasn't going to risk his life getting involved. Too many innocent people have died for much less.
I felt badly about this for a couple of days-although I felt worse about my poor, sick guts-and I can't help but think that people like these two should be under sedation-and treatment. But the NHS is crippled, and slowly dying. A friend of mine called me the other day-I'd left him a message asking him about his wife, who was seriously ill with a malignant brain tumor-and updated me. He said that the chemotherapy worked, and she seems to be turning the corner, although they've now found a new tumor (but a smaller one). He said that he didn't think they would do another course of chemotherapy on her because of monetary constraints, but they will try radiation. I was shocked: no chemo because they're trying to save money? Don't lives matter? Obviously not.
So there you have it: the update. Next week I have one hospital appointment, the following week I will (I hope!) be told that this motor neurone thing is a load of nonsense, and for the next few months (apart from the infusions, which will be for life), I am a free woman. Yikes! All that cleaning, I will be busy! And back to the gym.
I've had seven years of hell, and seven years of being what I call a "professional patient". I've spent more time in hospital clinics (most of it waiting to see someone) than I have doing anything else. Now I feel like I'm being paroled. Of course, that is usually when something bad happens-so maybe I'll just wait and see. Starbucks is calling.
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