I went to Ireland for a few days. After the last time I blogged, I found myself taking Ryanair from Luton to Dublin. Here is a bit of advice: never, EVER, fly Ryanair. They are the world's worse, shittiest airline.
Ryanair prides itself on being very cheap. It is: very, very cheap, so cheap that you begin to wonder if you are going to have to walk to Ireland. And Luton Airport, now known as "London Luton Airport", is about 35 miles out of London-or thereabouts. Most of the cheapo flights depart from Luton, which is now being renovated. So you end up walking around a half hour to the gate, then walk to outside steps to the plane (remember those? Yeah, I didn't think so), up about a dozen steps, and if you're carrying a crutch in one hand and a case in the other, it's just about impossible to get up the steps without ending up falling ass over tit onto the person behind you. Did anyone help? Seriously? At one point I had to turn around and snap at someone, saying that if they're in such a bloody rush they could help me. They didn't. Welcome to Britain.
Ryanair won't give you a glass of water, either. They say they don't have any-but will charge you for a bottle of water. They'll also charge you for a reserved seat (good thing, because the plane is very old, and has a central aisle with three seats on each side, and the seats don't recline. Obviously. That would be the mark of a quality airline). They charge for everything; soon they'll be charging to use the restroom. And maybe to breathe the air. It was horrible-and I've even left stuff out!
Now Luton-they're renovating, and moving runways around, and trying to tart up the airport. But no matter how hard they try to tart the place up, it is-and will always be-a shithole. Because the flights leave at some ungodly hour-like 6am-and you have to be there for 4am- you'd think it wouldn't be all that crowded at that hour of the day. But it was like being in the middle of a stampede. Hundreds of people of varying ages and sizes swarmed on the place like a plague of locusts-and I was doing my best to stay upright. What a challenge.
The plane arrived late, the crew were left standing around waiting for the plane to arrive, and when it did, someone walked around it, checking for-what, exactly? To make sure the engines weren't going to drop out? I think that Ryanair buys old planes, reconditions them, and keeps them together with super glue and sticky tape. I had visions of us dropping out of the sky at any moment.
The flights both to and from Dublin made me want to never fly Ryanair again-and never fly out of poxy Luton, the shithole of England. I'd rather walk. There was a point where I thought we all might have to walk.
But I enjoyed Ireland-once I got there. My friend has a lovely house outside Kilkenny, and we spent a few days just hanging out, walking around Kilkenny, and generally doing very little. I needed the rest, frankly; I finally have a surgery date, after six months of waiting for these leaking implants to be removed.
The surgery is tomorrow. Ewww....I'm really apprehensive, given the history of things gone wrong. Thanks to the NHS for nearly killing me; will they succeed this time? I must remember that the oncologist knows what he's doing, and he isn't like the three cripplers (Hilary Longhurst, Sofia Grigoriadou, Phil not-so-Bright), so I think this is just a knee jerk fear reaction. We'll see.
At least I won't be in a place where I can fight with anyone. I'll probably be too busy throwing up and asking for morphine.
I'll let you know when I get back on Monday. My friend is staying with me, since I probably won't be able to lift my arms for a few days. What a way to ruin a bank holiday weekend!
Thursday, 24 August 2017
Wednesday, 9 August 2017
Spontaneous Combustion and the Organ Grinder's Monkey
Did you ever have a day where you got so irritated at people-just about all people-that you wanted to turn around and punch them in the face? Yes, I've had six weeks like that. And it was so long since I posted that I found it difficult to get back in the saddle.
I'm back in the saddle. And can I ever understand why some people just lose it and turn around and beat the crap out of the people who seriously piss them off. Been there, done that. Sadly, however, I'm not a hitter. I would probably lift my arm to hit someone and fall over. Oh, well...it's the thought that counts.
I had a tough time with the heat, the humidity, the rank air... extremes of heat give me migraines. I don't get them from the usual culprits: red wine, chocolate, sex...(just joking about the last one. It's been so long since I had any, I forgot who gets tied up).
I managed to do all the hospital stuff; if it was necessary, I did it. It worked out, though, because my physiotherapist was so pleased with my progress (or maybe she just got fed up with my sweating all over her floor), that she discharged me. I start more physio with the vestibular people, and that will be hard going-but the thought of being challenged really makes me happy.
That doesn't quite bring you up to speed, although there were times when it was so hot that if I'd spontaneously combusted I probably would have been cooler. I would have been less embarrassed, too-because I left a sweat trail. If you wanted to find me, all you needed to do was follow the trail. Ewww...not very sexy, sweating everywhere, I can tell you.
Three weeks ago the fertilizer hit the fan with my neighbor upstairs-Abdul Asswipe, the psychopath who drills in the middle of the night. He has the nasty habit of leaving puddles of interesting biological matter outside my door-in short, he pees. He clearly comes from a country that doesn't have toilets. Or he's just a pig. So I lost it. I rang the landlord to complain, and I was shunted from department to department and put on hold. After nearly two hours of this - and I was born without the patience gene, so you can imagine how I was ready to go bitch slap someone - I hung up-and I realized that I have been telling you for years how you should ignore the monkey and find the organ grinder if you want something done. Blech-the world is full of monkeys who fancy themselves as organ grinders. So when you see a monkey, pat him on the head, kick him in the balls, and go find the organ grinder.You'll do a lot of ball kicking-but if you just don't give up, you will find them.
I rang the council, since they áre my landlords (for the time being), and I asked for the name and extensión of the CEO. The chief executive officer has to be the organ grinder- and the switchboard operator was great. She took pity on me, hearing the frustration in my voice- put me on hold, and came back and said that she spoke to this guy Chris's assistant, who wanted me to put everything in an email. That is exactly what I did. Of course, Chris didn't get back to me. After all, he is the CEO; he could be the CEO of a public toilet, but the title is enough to give him delusions of grandeur.
This was on Friday; on Wednesday I received a phone call from the antisocial behaviour team. They wanted to know what happened, since I also put in the email how useless they were in 2012, when they had me jumping through hoops.
An hour later-an hour later-the housing director phoned me. Then he rang me back half an hour later, to tell me that he was coming on Friday to talk to Abdul and sort him out.
And that is exactly what happened. As you can imagine, the CEO probably delegated the problem to some minion somewhere, and told the minion to sort it, because he never wanted to hear from me again.
Like I care? Do I care? Hell, no. Find the organ grinder. Piss him off. You aren't in this life to make everyone like you; you want results.
There's more drama from the past few weeks, but I'll save it for next time-or this post will be the length of War and Peace.
Next time-and not six weeks from now, either. Life is getting more and more interesting. And I think I need to take up a hobby that is more in line with my personality. Maybe-kickboxing...
I'm back in the saddle. And can I ever understand why some people just lose it and turn around and beat the crap out of the people who seriously piss them off. Been there, done that. Sadly, however, I'm not a hitter. I would probably lift my arm to hit someone and fall over. Oh, well...it's the thought that counts.
I had a tough time with the heat, the humidity, the rank air... extremes of heat give me migraines. I don't get them from the usual culprits: red wine, chocolate, sex...(just joking about the last one. It's been so long since I had any, I forgot who gets tied up).
I managed to do all the hospital stuff; if it was necessary, I did it. It worked out, though, because my physiotherapist was so pleased with my progress (or maybe she just got fed up with my sweating all over her floor), that she discharged me. I start more physio with the vestibular people, and that will be hard going-but the thought of being challenged really makes me happy.
That doesn't quite bring you up to speed, although there were times when it was so hot that if I'd spontaneously combusted I probably would have been cooler. I would have been less embarrassed, too-because I left a sweat trail. If you wanted to find me, all you needed to do was follow the trail. Ewww...not very sexy, sweating everywhere, I can tell you.
Three weeks ago the fertilizer hit the fan with my neighbor upstairs-Abdul Asswipe, the psychopath who drills in the middle of the night. He has the nasty habit of leaving puddles of interesting biological matter outside my door-in short, he pees. He clearly comes from a country that doesn't have toilets. Or he's just a pig. So I lost it. I rang the landlord to complain, and I was shunted from department to department and put on hold. After nearly two hours of this - and I was born without the patience gene, so you can imagine how I was ready to go bitch slap someone - I hung up-and I realized that I have been telling you for years how you should ignore the monkey and find the organ grinder if you want something done. Blech-the world is full of monkeys who fancy themselves as organ grinders. So when you see a monkey, pat him on the head, kick him in the balls, and go find the organ grinder.You'll do a lot of ball kicking-but if you just don't give up, you will find them.
I rang the council, since they áre my landlords (for the time being), and I asked for the name and extensión of the CEO. The chief executive officer has to be the organ grinder- and the switchboard operator was great. She took pity on me, hearing the frustration in my voice- put me on hold, and came back and said that she spoke to this guy Chris's assistant, who wanted me to put everything in an email. That is exactly what I did. Of course, Chris didn't get back to me. After all, he is the CEO; he could be the CEO of a public toilet, but the title is enough to give him delusions of grandeur.
This was on Friday; on Wednesday I received a phone call from the antisocial behaviour team. They wanted to know what happened, since I also put in the email how useless they were in 2012, when they had me jumping through hoops.
An hour later-an hour later-the housing director phoned me. Then he rang me back half an hour later, to tell me that he was coming on Friday to talk to Abdul and sort him out.
And that is exactly what happened. As you can imagine, the CEO probably delegated the problem to some minion somewhere, and told the minion to sort it, because he never wanted to hear from me again.
Like I care? Do I care? Hell, no. Find the organ grinder. Piss him off. You aren't in this life to make everyone like you; you want results.
There's more drama from the past few weeks, but I'll save it for next time-or this post will be the length of War and Peace.
Next time-and not six weeks from now, either. Life is getting more and more interesting. And I think I need to take up a hobby that is more in line with my personality. Maybe-kickboxing...
Friday, 30 June 2017
Just like a bad case of food poisoning
I'm finally back online-and we're now into the 70s, as opposed to 100F and rising. For now. So I'm not sloshing everywhere. Yet.
Yesterday I stopped writing early so I could go to Starbucks-I really, really wanted a flat white, my weapon of choice (because carrying a gun is illegal-not that lots of people care, and carry them anyway).
I decided to go to see Baby Driver, which I thought would be a good film. It was, and the bonus for me was to hear the Simon and Garfunkel track at the end of the movie. Air conditioning? Seriously?
I advised you not to talk to anyone over here, and to be really cautious, because most (not all, but a lot) are braindead, rude, obnoxious, and threatening. Knife crimes are high, and people are now throwing acid in people's faces and blinding them. Sick? Well, yes-a good reason to keep eyes averted (while you still have them) and mouth firmly shut. But me? You know better by now-and I live here, so I should know better. Ummm...
I walked out of the cinema, humming Baby Driver, and as I began to turn the corner, some imbecile decided to push past me on the crutch side-right next to the corner of the building. Now, wouldn't you see that someone is on a crutch, a bit wobbly, lifting the stick to turn left-and wouldn't you take a few seconds to let them turn before coming around them? Of course you would. That takes a functioning brain. And manners. Oh, no-this woman pushed me and tried to get around me, crashing into the crutch, tripping, and falling over. What a moron! I just looked at her-and she went off like a rocket. You tripped me! No, I said, you tripped over the crutch and nearly knocked me over. No, she said, I tripped you? Who fell over? I could see that she was mental-so I watched what I said, because the moron just wanted to fight. She then went on to say that I should remember what area I'm in (no shit. Wood Green, one of the really crap, crime ridden and dangerous areas of London), and that if she wasn't so nice she would hit me. I just looked at her-and said oh really - and walked away. I was waiting for a punch-or knife- in the back, but she was either just full of hot air or on drugs, or just a nutter. Lucky escape. I could have told her off-but I just kept my mouth shut. Mostly.
My ex used to say that if there was one crazy person within a fifty mile radius, that person would find me. He was from the northeast, my favourite part of the country-where they actually like (mostly) Americans, so I always thought I was pretty safe there. But-no, I seem to attract nutters wherever I go. They just turn up; they just keep coming back, they're really like a bad case of food poisoning: they don't want to go elsewhere.
I know: moan, moan, whinge, whinge, kvetch, kvetch. I have done so much of that over these seven years that I have bored myself rigid. So now I need to stop. Well-at least slow down-because dumping on the Brits is justified. And fun. And I had years of being on the receiving end, so now it's time to get my own back. There is truth to the saying: don't get mad, get even. Unless you're over here: then get very, very quiet.
My new neurologist, Dr N (I've used Dr A and Dr B so many times, I forgot which one was which), told me that I've had a huge setback, and that, considering all the surgeries, cancer, CVID, etc., I'm doing remarkably well. He said that I just need to keep walking, keep fighting (not other people, though) to improve, keep positive (not so easy!! I'm really beginning to prefer animals to people. I'm even beginning to prefer coffee to people), remember that it will take longer than it will for people who haven't had serious illnesses...he went on to say that he has many patients who have had vestibular destruction in only one ear, but they don't do one percent of what I've managed to do. They sit. I guess they sit and rot. I don't sit. I fall over, but I don't sit. And rotting? That's for vegetables. I'm not there yet.
I'm really lucky that I got a supportive vestibular specialist-in fact, I'm really lucky that, after so many years at that crap hospital (Royal London), I've got a really good team at the Royal Free. And-by the way-I discovered on Monday that I'm not imagining things when it comes to the implant.
I've sprung a leak. Yes, one implant is leaking, and that is why I'm in so much pain. I haven't done anything: haven't fallen on it, or knocked it, I've been really careful-but it's leaking. So both implants are being removed. I'm going to have this done at the end of August.
I will -once again - be completely flat. I will have a six pack chest. I will have a nice, flat space to put my laptop. And I was initially a little upset-but I also won't have pain. And I'm cancer free. So I'm not so upset after all-although I did buy some really nice bras, and now I will have to stuff them full of -tissues? Kleenex. If I need a tissue, I'll know where to find it.
Yesterday I stopped writing early so I could go to Starbucks-I really, really wanted a flat white, my weapon of choice (because carrying a gun is illegal-not that lots of people care, and carry them anyway).
I decided to go to see Baby Driver, which I thought would be a good film. It was, and the bonus for me was to hear the Simon and Garfunkel track at the end of the movie. Air conditioning? Seriously?
I advised you not to talk to anyone over here, and to be really cautious, because most (not all, but a lot) are braindead, rude, obnoxious, and threatening. Knife crimes are high, and people are now throwing acid in people's faces and blinding them. Sick? Well, yes-a good reason to keep eyes averted (while you still have them) and mouth firmly shut. But me? You know better by now-and I live here, so I should know better. Ummm...
I walked out of the cinema, humming Baby Driver, and as I began to turn the corner, some imbecile decided to push past me on the crutch side-right next to the corner of the building. Now, wouldn't you see that someone is on a crutch, a bit wobbly, lifting the stick to turn left-and wouldn't you take a few seconds to let them turn before coming around them? Of course you would. That takes a functioning brain. And manners. Oh, no-this woman pushed me and tried to get around me, crashing into the crutch, tripping, and falling over. What a moron! I just looked at her-and she went off like a rocket. You tripped me! No, I said, you tripped over the crutch and nearly knocked me over. No, she said, I tripped you? Who fell over? I could see that she was mental-so I watched what I said, because the moron just wanted to fight. She then went on to say that I should remember what area I'm in (no shit. Wood Green, one of the really crap, crime ridden and dangerous areas of London), and that if she wasn't so nice she would hit me. I just looked at her-and said oh really - and walked away. I was waiting for a punch-or knife- in the back, but she was either just full of hot air or on drugs, or just a nutter. Lucky escape. I could have told her off-but I just kept my mouth shut. Mostly.
My ex used to say that if there was one crazy person within a fifty mile radius, that person would find me. He was from the northeast, my favourite part of the country-where they actually like (mostly) Americans, so I always thought I was pretty safe there. But-no, I seem to attract nutters wherever I go. They just turn up; they just keep coming back, they're really like a bad case of food poisoning: they don't want to go elsewhere.
I know: moan, moan, whinge, whinge, kvetch, kvetch. I have done so much of that over these seven years that I have bored myself rigid. So now I need to stop. Well-at least slow down-because dumping on the Brits is justified. And fun. And I had years of being on the receiving end, so now it's time to get my own back. There is truth to the saying: don't get mad, get even. Unless you're over here: then get very, very quiet.
My new neurologist, Dr N (I've used Dr A and Dr B so many times, I forgot which one was which), told me that I've had a huge setback, and that, considering all the surgeries, cancer, CVID, etc., I'm doing remarkably well. He said that I just need to keep walking, keep fighting (not other people, though) to improve, keep positive (not so easy!! I'm really beginning to prefer animals to people. I'm even beginning to prefer coffee to people), remember that it will take longer than it will for people who haven't had serious illnesses...he went on to say that he has many patients who have had vestibular destruction in only one ear, but they don't do one percent of what I've managed to do. They sit. I guess they sit and rot. I don't sit. I fall over, but I don't sit. And rotting? That's for vegetables. I'm not there yet.
I'm really lucky that I got a supportive vestibular specialist-in fact, I'm really lucky that, after so many years at that crap hospital (Royal London), I've got a really good team at the Royal Free. And-by the way-I discovered on Monday that I'm not imagining things when it comes to the implant.
I've sprung a leak. Yes, one implant is leaking, and that is why I'm in so much pain. I haven't done anything: haven't fallen on it, or knocked it, I've been really careful-but it's leaking. So both implants are being removed. I'm going to have this done at the end of August.
I will -once again - be completely flat. I will have a six pack chest. I will have a nice, flat space to put my laptop. And I was initially a little upset-but I also won't have pain. And I'm cancer free. So I'm not so upset after all-although I did buy some really nice bras, and now I will have to stuff them full of -tissues? Kleenex. If I need a tissue, I'll know where to find it.
Thursday, 29 June 2017
Sometimes life just sucks
All of us have a sucky day-or week-or, sadly, month- or, sometimes, year. Or seven in my case. Well, boo hoo. Moan, moan, whinge, whinge, kvetch, kvetch. You know how it goes. I haven't had a sucky life (yet), so I can consider myself very lucky.
I can bust a few myths, now that I'm cooled down and back at the computer. We had a blistering hot week last week, and right in the middle of it I had to go to central London to meet my new neurologist, the person who took over from Dr. D, who (sadly. Really sadly) retired. And it was the height of the heatwave, and temperatures soared to 100F. I can almost hear my friends in Florida, Pennsylvania, New York-and everywhere, saying "you call that a heatwave??". Well-it is for England. Railroad tracks and roads were buckling, it would have been entertaining, but in the absence of air conditioning-in the absence of air (period), it was just bloody hot. Is this what hell will feel like? Oops-well, yes, I nearly forgot where I am.
I sloshed my way into the hospital to find that they had only fans. So I had to race another patient (I was faster) to a seat immediately in front of a fan (the fan was about 12 feet away, behind a desk), where I proceeded to dry out. Anyone think a hot, sweaty, pissed off stranger is sexy? If so-you're really weird.
Who says that things happen in threes? I always heard that-but we've had four terrorist attacks in two months. There goes that myth, busted. And we know there will be more to come, because there is such a palaver about "human rights" and what is "PC" that people who probably should be watched closely aren't watched at all.
We've had a fire in a 24 story block of flats in one of the richest boroughs in London-yet there was only one way in, one way out, one staircase for 120 flats-and no working sprinkler system. It turns out that the cladding on the outside of the building was-flammable. Flammable! Incredible. And horrifying, because over six hundred tower blocks around the country are found to have the same unsafe cladding. Welcome to England, where incompetence reigns supreme and where poor people die.
Another myth is the myth of manners, intelligence and politeness in the UK. We all know about that bucket of fertilizer (aka sack of shit) because I've told you all the stories. I went to my Tai Chi class on Tuesday night and some beached whale in a pink tutu gave me grief about having an embow crutch. She clearly has an issue with crutches. Or women who don't wear lycra that is so tight they are in danger of bursting like an overstuffed sausage, probably asphyxiating anyone with fifty feet with all their flying fat. I admit I lost my temper, called her Jabba the Hut, and said that she should keep stuffing her face until she explodes. Then she hurled more abuse and I offered to go to reception and get someone to help her out by ordering a fork lift. That went down well...??
So here are some tips for survival over here:
1. Don't get engaged in conversation with anyone. You never know if they're armed. They probably are.
2. Never get involved in an argument with someone who is the size of Jabba the Hut-unless you are the size of Moby Dick, in which case drown them with something out of your blowhole.
3. Never get involved in a dispute with someone who clearly hasn't had a wash since-puberty. Not only will you have to suffer the stench, but you will be ducking anything they have that's crawling on them-and can probably jump. High. And far.
I'm going to Starbucks. I'll see you later. And there's more. Lots more...
I can bust a few myths, now that I'm cooled down and back at the computer. We had a blistering hot week last week, and right in the middle of it I had to go to central London to meet my new neurologist, the person who took over from Dr. D, who (sadly. Really sadly) retired. And it was the height of the heatwave, and temperatures soared to 100F. I can almost hear my friends in Florida, Pennsylvania, New York-and everywhere, saying "you call that a heatwave??". Well-it is for England. Railroad tracks and roads were buckling, it would have been entertaining, but in the absence of air conditioning-in the absence of air (period), it was just bloody hot. Is this what hell will feel like? Oops-well, yes, I nearly forgot where I am.
I sloshed my way into the hospital to find that they had only fans. So I had to race another patient (I was faster) to a seat immediately in front of a fan (the fan was about 12 feet away, behind a desk), where I proceeded to dry out. Anyone think a hot, sweaty, pissed off stranger is sexy? If so-you're really weird.
Who says that things happen in threes? I always heard that-but we've had four terrorist attacks in two months. There goes that myth, busted. And we know there will be more to come, because there is such a palaver about "human rights" and what is "PC" that people who probably should be watched closely aren't watched at all.
We've had a fire in a 24 story block of flats in one of the richest boroughs in London-yet there was only one way in, one way out, one staircase for 120 flats-and no working sprinkler system. It turns out that the cladding on the outside of the building was-flammable. Flammable! Incredible. And horrifying, because over six hundred tower blocks around the country are found to have the same unsafe cladding. Welcome to England, where incompetence reigns supreme and where poor people die.
Another myth is the myth of manners, intelligence and politeness in the UK. We all know about that bucket of fertilizer (aka sack of shit) because I've told you all the stories. I went to my Tai Chi class on Tuesday night and some beached whale in a pink tutu gave me grief about having an embow crutch. She clearly has an issue with crutches. Or women who don't wear lycra that is so tight they are in danger of bursting like an overstuffed sausage, probably asphyxiating anyone with fifty feet with all their flying fat. I admit I lost my temper, called her Jabba the Hut, and said that she should keep stuffing her face until she explodes. Then she hurled more abuse and I offered to go to reception and get someone to help her out by ordering a fork lift. That went down well...??
So here are some tips for survival over here:
1. Don't get engaged in conversation with anyone. You never know if they're armed. They probably are.
2. Never get involved in an argument with someone who is the size of Jabba the Hut-unless you are the size of Moby Dick, in which case drown them with something out of your blowhole.
3. Never get involved in a dispute with someone who clearly hasn't had a wash since-puberty. Not only will you have to suffer the stench, but you will be ducking anything they have that's crawling on them-and can probably jump. High. And far.
I'm going to Starbucks. I'll see you later. And there's more. Lots more...
Monday, 12 June 2017
Not dead yet-but back in the battle (again. Or still
I know it's been a month-and I'm still not dead, although I've felt like I'm stuck in the first circle of Hell. We've had two terrorist attacks in less than a month, and I've had a few dramas of my own.
I've been feeling severe dizziness for a couple of months-dizziness and nystagmus (meaning that my eyes don't focus properly and move around all on their own). That is all down to gentamicin, the gift that keeps on giving. So I've had a tough time blogging-in fact, I've had a tough time walking!
I did the hospital routine - mostly because I had to - and tried not to fall into traffic. I tried to get an earlier appointment with the Queen Square people, who are the go-to guys for vestibular destruction; they have no appointments until July, and no matter how much I called them and cajoled them, they just didn't seem interested. Very, very frustrating.
So that was me, no contact with anyone except by telephone. What on earth would we do without computers, emails, mobile phones? Have some peace and quiet, probably.
The day that I had an MRI was also the day that I heard about the Manchester bombing. I can tell you that I was really upset-not depressed, but angry. How dare these maniacs target children?How dare they target anyone? To be fair, the Mancunians really stepped up to help each other-but they won't return to normal for a long time, if ever.
Then we get another terrorist attack, this time in London-London Bridge and Borough Market are popular areas for tourists, for shopping, for dining out-and eight dead this time. I could not believe it- and we're on alert for another one, somewhere, some time. These nutters just never give up.
It's interesting to note that, looking at the photos of all the terrorists, they are incredibly ugly. No wonder they believe that they will end up with vestal virgins looking after them in Paradise-so they're stupid, too. Where they're going won't be Paradise-and any vestal virgin would look at them and run screaming for the exit. They've probably never been laid.
I borrowed a friend's old laptop to post this, since you might think I got either blown up, shot, or abducted by aliens.
Nope-still here, and although this is taking three times longer than usual, I'm not giving up. People here are calling each other brave, and resilient, and refusing to give in to terrorists. Of course-cowering in fear only gives them more power. And I know more than a little about resilience, courage and the refusal to give in or quit. I know a lot about that; it's been seven years, and I'm still going. I'm like the Energizer bunny.
We've had another election-I think they all suck. Now we have a "hung Parliament"- you only have to look at all the male MPs to see that nobody is well hung.
Iceland is looking more attractive by the minute.
Sunday, 14 May 2017
Attack of the Creeping, Crepitating, Lurking Lurgy
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.
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.
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.
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