Four weeks yesterday I had the implants removed-and what a disaster that was!! I ended up with a hematoma the size of Brazil. From waist to shoulder, all the way around the back, down to the buttocks-and it hurt like hell, too.
The docs tried to do a needle aspiration - they removed a syringe filled with blood (that was a week after surgery)-but then the blood clots became solid, and I was told that I should be out of pain in-maybe-six months.
If I've already told you this, feel free to go make a coffee for the next few sentences. It just means that that malady I call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) has once again reached up and bitten me on the ass. I can tell you that people I know quite well suffer from this as well-as do people in their 20s and 30s-so it's no longer just a middle aged person's malady. It's everywhere-like flu. Does that make me feel a little bit smug? It shouldn't-but it does.
Last week the surgeon removed the stitches from one side. He's waiting until Monday to remove the rest. I asked him if he thinks that any earlier would make my chest fall out if I coughed. He thought that was funny. If he was in my shoes, he wouldn't think anything is funny. He even told me that the pooled blood and all the blood clots would migrate down my buttocks and stomach, and I shouldn't be worried. Seriously? I asked him what I should do when it all reaches my ankles: stand on my head? Dangle upside down until it all starts to move the other way? Huh. Idiots.
Well, here I am, four weeks later, and a lot of the bruising has subsided, although the bruising on my chest still looks like someone kicked me while I was under the anesthesia. Kicked, punched, dropped a 20 kilo weight-whatever. I must have that effect on people: they want to wait until I'm comatose and then kick the shit out of me.
A doctor I know advised me to use heat-so I've been using a heating pad every day for about the last two weeks-and, between the heating pad and the arnica (I swear by arnica-too bad I don't have any stock in the company. Another missed opportunity), I think that it's all looking a bit less black. Now it's all dark grey. How exciting is that? I really need to get out more...
I do have some interesting news, and this is about the whole needles/syringes debacle. I persisted-almost daily, because you know that when someone really, really pisses me off I just go for the jugular, no matter how long it takes. I received an apology from my GP. It wasn't a grovelling apology, but it wasn't far off. Then on Thursday I was due to go over to the surgery for my annual flu shot-some media idiots are bleating that this will be the worst flu epidemic in years (they do that every year. It frightens people, and it sells what these idiots laughingly call "newspapers").
I go because of the whole immune system/chest challenges. And I'm sitting there, waiting for the doc to see me, and who walks out of her office- my GP. Of course. WTF...and other expressions of dismay...
She came straight over to me and apologized again, said that she was very foolish, and blah blah blah. Of course, every patient advocacy group-plus the MP-were after her, so she might have done this to get the heat off (finally). She also might have been genuinely sorry that she and her team of morons screwed up so royally. So we are going to meet in a couple of weeks and sit down and just put this all behind us. Perhaps I should wear a bullet-proof vest...or maybe she should?
I'm glad I persevered, and that this whole matter is nearly at an end, and if I never hear about needles and syringes again it will be absolutely wonderful.
My friend Dee says that anything for a quiet life-at any cost-is exactly what she wants, and she just doesn't like any kind of confrontation. She runs from it. I can understand that-in some ways-and I know her for a number of years, and if she was really happy to live her life that way, I would applaud her. I know that she isn't- because she never stands up for herself. But hey, whatever floats your boat.
I seem to be in battle mode a large percentage of time, fighting for myself, or for anyone who needs (and asks for) help...and I wonder which of us is healthier, the fighter or the - not fighter. I'm not so sure I want to keep fighting all the time. It's very wearing. In this country, if you fight for anyone's rights (including your own) you're pilloried and demonized. Who needs that?
I'm telling you: I'm going to take up kick boxing...
Saturday, 23 September 2017
Saturday, 2 September 2017
Tits Ahoy: Titless in London
I was in full battle dress the last time I wrote-I fight for my principles. But I had to delay the battle (which I'll tell you about later) to go into the hospital last Friday (the 25th) to have the implants removed-after a six month wait.
Talk about pain; one implant was ruptured. So my body clearly doesn't like those things, and now I'm flat as a pancake again. But I would rather be flat and go through a week and a bit of agonizing pain (post-op) than all the pain I had before. It turns out-according to the surgeon-that a high percentage of women have the implants removed because the body rejects them. Thanks for telling me now-a bit late, don't you think? And, there is a shelf life for implants. Even when they're successful, they need replacing every 7-10 years. Some lucky women are okay with them for longer than that, but there are so many side effects that now I encourage people to think very carefully about whether or not it is worth the aggravation.
I was discharged on Wednesday afternoon, and have I ever been suffering since then! The after effects of pain killers, intravenous antibiotics, and hospital food that I'm sure started out as toxic waste-all these things took their toll. So, since I got back I have been pretty inert-and what balance I have paid the price. If I don't walk daily, I start to revert to staggering. Interesting.
Yesterday I forced myself to eat, and I managed to keep a bit down, but that was a little difficult. I also walked for about 45 minutes; I'm someone who never does things by halves, so of course I overdid it, and got back and was knackered. But something about movement, action and refusing to quit has made things begin to improve. That, plus it's been a week since surgery, mean that I'm in less pain. But I'm also black from waist to shoulder, so that's really unpleasant. For the first five or six days I couldn't raise my arms. That was a little disconcerting, I can tell you. There's so much really bad bruising that I said to the surgeon that I must have offended someone and they waited until I was unconscious to kick me in the chest. I made him laugh, but I did wonder...
But now that I'm slowly on the mend from that ordeal, I have to tell you about this battle-it is so incredible that I tell friends and family and they look at me, astonished, as if to say: can that be real? It can. It is.
I might have mentioned that my GP had been giving me needles and syringes every month and a half or so, needed for my nebulizer. Now, I've had this nebulizer for more than seven years, and they began trialling it then as an alternative to the big clunking one that you have to clear the room of people, pets, goldfish, before you can actually use it, because a lot of the antibiotic goes straight into the room. So you have to also open the window and shut the door. With this new one, you don't need to do that. It is the size of a pack of cards, very compact, and a special formulation of the antibiotic is used,which must be drawn up (hence the needles and syringes), then injected into the vial of antibiotic, mixed well, and placed into the nebulizer. The entire process takes less than five minutes-plus the two or three minutes it takes to rinse the bits of the machine. And then Bob's your uncle. Done and dusted (no, I still don't know who Bob is and why he's your uncle. But nobody else does, either). The Ineb is the Rolls Royce of nebulizers-more than 90 percent of antibiotic is inhaled-less than half is inhaled using the traditional nebulizer. So why on earth would I go back to using the old one?
In July, Margaret (my GP) decided that the needles and syringes are "coming out of the partners' pockets"-and she was going to stop giving them to me, which she had been doing for many years out of the "kindness of her heart". That was her reasoning: it's coming out of the partners' pockets. When the NHS gave all the funding directly to the GPs and told them to manage the funds themselves (funds that are public funds), it was inevitable that some unscrupulous doctors would get greedy; lining their own pockets and stuffing their own bank balances were more important than their patients' health and wellbeing. Again, a matter of principle for me.
There are four partners and eleven paid doctors-and the practice is paid a certain amount per patient (I don't know how much it is now, but six years ago it was £150 per patient. You do the math). The practice is coining it in-but they can't afford £10 or £12 every month and a half? Who are they kidding?
To add insult to injury, Margaret didn't have the guts to come out and tell me herself. She had a very nasty receptionist come out and slam two part boxes on the counter and tell me that these are the last needles and syringes that I'm going to get. I asked why; she snapped that Margaret said that these objects-necessary equipment to nebulize, which is necessary for my survival-are coming out of the partners' pockets. When I asked what I was supposed to do, she snapped again: go and buy them yourself. Then she walked away. I asked before she left to speak to Margaret, and she told me that Margaret was "busy".
So that was the beginning of a fight. I checked with the pharmacy, and was told that both boxes would cost me £25 per month-and the person who prescribes the antibiotic is obliged to provide the equipment to use that antibiotic. So into action I went-in a big way.
I got onto the Great God Google, and I found a patients' helpline. I rang them and got the name of a patients' advocacy group called Healthwatch. I contacted the Haringey CCG-clinical commissioning group-who allegedly oversee the medical practices in the borough. I rang a lawyer and asked if it was legal for her to do this. I was told that if these objects are not in the formulary, they can't be prescribed, but what she did - and the way she did it- was unethical, unprofessional, and immoral. The lawyer said that the whole thing was disgusting.
I didn't stop there. I called NHS England, and was told that, since I complained to the practice (even though it was by phone and not in writing), they couldn't help me, because new legislation dictated that if a patient complains to a doctor that patient can't make a complaint to the NHS. What a load of bollocks.
I then went to the Ombudsman (you can tell I was very busy. That's what happens when you piss me off). And they were sympathetic, thought her behavior and attitude were a total disgrace-but said that if I could get her to put in writing (an email would do nicely) that the reason she decided to stop the provision of the equipment I need to use the antibiotics that she prescribed was that it was "coming out of the partners' pockets", they could take action on my behalf. So I'm trying to get her to do that; she promised that she would, and I will keep on at her until she keeps her promise.
This is a matter of disgraceful, disgusting, unprofessional and downright petty behavior on the part of a GP who should know better. She even went to my team at the hospital, would you believe? And they told me last week that they would provide the needles and syringes, even though it isn't their obligation to do so. They said that I'm their patient, and my safety, health and well-being are their priority. They would rather give me the equipment I need than to see me go without. And their comment about Margaret is that she is a disgrace. There goes her reputation-as if she cares. She'd rather sit in her office and count her money.
Am I stopping there? Hell, no. I'm getting that letter if I have to go there and sit and wait for it. Then I'm going to the Ombudsman, and we'll see a few sparks fly, because I'm also going to my local MP. Margaret will love a letter with a Parliament letterhead. Then I'm going to the media. And then, when I've made a huge deal and stirred the shit as much as I can, I'm changing doctors.
It isn't about a relatively small sum of money. It's about the lack of ethics and integrity, it's about the cowardly and unpleasant way it was done. It's a matter of principle, and as I said, I fight for a principle-even if I fight for other people, it's the principle.
And that's what happens when you really, really piss me off.
Talk about pain; one implant was ruptured. So my body clearly doesn't like those things, and now I'm flat as a pancake again. But I would rather be flat and go through a week and a bit of agonizing pain (post-op) than all the pain I had before. It turns out-according to the surgeon-that a high percentage of women have the implants removed because the body rejects them. Thanks for telling me now-a bit late, don't you think? And, there is a shelf life for implants. Even when they're successful, they need replacing every 7-10 years. Some lucky women are okay with them for longer than that, but there are so many side effects that now I encourage people to think very carefully about whether or not it is worth the aggravation.
I was discharged on Wednesday afternoon, and have I ever been suffering since then! The after effects of pain killers, intravenous antibiotics, and hospital food that I'm sure started out as toxic waste-all these things took their toll. So, since I got back I have been pretty inert-and what balance I have paid the price. If I don't walk daily, I start to revert to staggering. Interesting.
Yesterday I forced myself to eat, and I managed to keep a bit down, but that was a little difficult. I also walked for about 45 minutes; I'm someone who never does things by halves, so of course I overdid it, and got back and was knackered. But something about movement, action and refusing to quit has made things begin to improve. That, plus it's been a week since surgery, mean that I'm in less pain. But I'm also black from waist to shoulder, so that's really unpleasant. For the first five or six days I couldn't raise my arms. That was a little disconcerting, I can tell you. There's so much really bad bruising that I said to the surgeon that I must have offended someone and they waited until I was unconscious to kick me in the chest. I made him laugh, but I did wonder...
But now that I'm slowly on the mend from that ordeal, I have to tell you about this battle-it is so incredible that I tell friends and family and they look at me, astonished, as if to say: can that be real? It can. It is.
I might have mentioned that my GP had been giving me needles and syringes every month and a half or so, needed for my nebulizer. Now, I've had this nebulizer for more than seven years, and they began trialling it then as an alternative to the big clunking one that you have to clear the room of people, pets, goldfish, before you can actually use it, because a lot of the antibiotic goes straight into the room. So you have to also open the window and shut the door. With this new one, you don't need to do that. It is the size of a pack of cards, very compact, and a special formulation of the antibiotic is used,which must be drawn up (hence the needles and syringes), then injected into the vial of antibiotic, mixed well, and placed into the nebulizer. The entire process takes less than five minutes-plus the two or three minutes it takes to rinse the bits of the machine. And then Bob's your uncle. Done and dusted (no, I still don't know who Bob is and why he's your uncle. But nobody else does, either). The Ineb is the Rolls Royce of nebulizers-more than 90 percent of antibiotic is inhaled-less than half is inhaled using the traditional nebulizer. So why on earth would I go back to using the old one?
In July, Margaret (my GP) decided that the needles and syringes are "coming out of the partners' pockets"-and she was going to stop giving them to me, which she had been doing for many years out of the "kindness of her heart". That was her reasoning: it's coming out of the partners' pockets. When the NHS gave all the funding directly to the GPs and told them to manage the funds themselves (funds that are public funds), it was inevitable that some unscrupulous doctors would get greedy; lining their own pockets and stuffing their own bank balances were more important than their patients' health and wellbeing. Again, a matter of principle for me.
There are four partners and eleven paid doctors-and the practice is paid a certain amount per patient (I don't know how much it is now, but six years ago it was £150 per patient. You do the math). The practice is coining it in-but they can't afford £10 or £12 every month and a half? Who are they kidding?
To add insult to injury, Margaret didn't have the guts to come out and tell me herself. She had a very nasty receptionist come out and slam two part boxes on the counter and tell me that these are the last needles and syringes that I'm going to get. I asked why; she snapped that Margaret said that these objects-necessary equipment to nebulize, which is necessary for my survival-are coming out of the partners' pockets. When I asked what I was supposed to do, she snapped again: go and buy them yourself. Then she walked away. I asked before she left to speak to Margaret, and she told me that Margaret was "busy".
So that was the beginning of a fight. I checked with the pharmacy, and was told that both boxes would cost me £25 per month-and the person who prescribes the antibiotic is obliged to provide the equipment to use that antibiotic. So into action I went-in a big way.
I got onto the Great God Google, and I found a patients' helpline. I rang them and got the name of a patients' advocacy group called Healthwatch. I contacted the Haringey CCG-clinical commissioning group-who allegedly oversee the medical practices in the borough. I rang a lawyer and asked if it was legal for her to do this. I was told that if these objects are not in the formulary, they can't be prescribed, but what she did - and the way she did it- was unethical, unprofessional, and immoral. The lawyer said that the whole thing was disgusting.
I didn't stop there. I called NHS England, and was told that, since I complained to the practice (even though it was by phone and not in writing), they couldn't help me, because new legislation dictated that if a patient complains to a doctor that patient can't make a complaint to the NHS. What a load of bollocks.
I then went to the Ombudsman (you can tell I was very busy. That's what happens when you piss me off). And they were sympathetic, thought her behavior and attitude were a total disgrace-but said that if I could get her to put in writing (an email would do nicely) that the reason she decided to stop the provision of the equipment I need to use the antibiotics that she prescribed was that it was "coming out of the partners' pockets", they could take action on my behalf. So I'm trying to get her to do that; she promised that she would, and I will keep on at her until she keeps her promise.
This is a matter of disgraceful, disgusting, unprofessional and downright petty behavior on the part of a GP who should know better. She even went to my team at the hospital, would you believe? And they told me last week that they would provide the needles and syringes, even though it isn't their obligation to do so. They said that I'm their patient, and my safety, health and well-being are their priority. They would rather give me the equipment I need than to see me go without. And their comment about Margaret is that she is a disgrace. There goes her reputation-as if she cares. She'd rather sit in her office and count her money.
Am I stopping there? Hell, no. I'm getting that letter if I have to go there and sit and wait for it. Then I'm going to the Ombudsman, and we'll see a few sparks fly, because I'm also going to my local MP. Margaret will love a letter with a Parliament letterhead. Then I'm going to the media. And then, when I've made a huge deal and stirred the shit as much as I can, I'm changing doctors.
It isn't about a relatively small sum of money. It's about the lack of ethics and integrity, it's about the cowardly and unpleasant way it was done. It's a matter of principle, and as I said, I fight for a principle-even if I fight for other people, it's the principle.
And that's what happens when you really, really piss me off.
Thursday, 24 August 2017
Rootin' Tootin' Freakin' Luton
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!
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!
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.
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