Potpourri III: Jadis, si je me souviens bien...

Jadis, si je me souviens bien...***

The odd pot is putrid again -- for my more attentive readers, you know that I am referencing a blog post with no structure beyond whatever the heck is on my mind: Potpourri!

The word puts me in mind of whatshisface -- I usually think first of Verlaine, and indeed, that is so. But that is so wrong. Hmmmm. Fred tells me to relax the brain, think of other things, expend no effort to uncover the correct name/person and what is sought will be made manifest. Harrumph. That's cranky talk for: Not bloody likely. This man was a criminal (having, among other things, committed murder), wrote his last testament, a moving piece -- and PRESTO! Francois Villon! Get it -- Verlaine/Villon?

Unfortunately, my EEG is likely spiking ominously, because Verlaine brings the idea of Rimbaud, and Rimbaud gifts me with Le dormeur du val -- which, of course, makes me think of war... Iraq... Bush... al Qaeda... 9/11 -- careening, careening, out of control, while the walls come tumbling down.

So we stop, me and my thoughts, to find Le dormeur du val, when the exercise was to find Villon à travers Paul Verlaine, to whom Rimbaud sent L.d.d.v. -- something that was, at the time, a perversion of romanticism. Believe it or not, while rereading the poem, what interrupts are thoughts of how to curb the sexual appetite of our oldest (neutered) cat, who has been suffering some confusion of late. Poor Sam-I-Am. (And, certainly, poor little Dobby, the unwitting object of Sam's ardor.)

It only happens when Sammy is in between sleeping and waking, caught in what looks to be a fugue state, poor fellow. I am often wakened by Dobby's cries for help.

Oh, and I am assuming (yeah, yeah, yeah) that you know Verlaine and Rimbaud were lovers. That Verlaine shot Rimbaud -- who suffered a booboo on the hand. That Rimbaud had him arrested. That there was much public humiliation ensuite, après, puis, donc et enfin -- and Verlaine served a couple of years. Rimbaud? He wrote Saison en enfer -- a sweet little domestic cautionary tale that I hope my felines will take to heart.

It appears I will think of anything to avoid thinking of that smiling soldier in the grass, even to the point of musing about homosexual cats. Oh, but I left out Marmy, Dobby's mother. She is straight but likes to watch.

Le dormeur du val

C’est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D’argent; où le soleil de la montagne fière,
Luit; C’est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort; il est étendu dans l’herbe, sous la nue,
Pale dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme:
Nature, berce-le chaudement: il a froid.

Les parfums ne font plus frissonner sa narine;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au coté droit

Surely it has been done, some sort of dynamic brain scan (PET? MRI? Or, if your fingers miss the correct keys: MEO?) Nurse, nurse, we need an MEO scan, presto! No... not presto... pronto! No, not pronto. Ah, yes, STAT! Sounds like accurate, reality-based, cutting edge medical dialogue to me. Anyway, surely it has been done, some sort of dynamic brain scan designed to follow the bouncing brain balls as the subject searches for a lost word.

I am horrible with names. This is not a great thing for a prof. I handled it well, I think, when teaching at university level. There was no dearth of personalities to make my students memorable. The merde hit the fan when I descended into that Hell known as public "urban" high school. Used to dealing with not more than 40 or so names, personalities, and talents, suddenly I had over 190 students, excluding homeroom. All these kids were determined to establish themselves as rabid individualists by means of dressing and acting alike.

Ah, but as for problem students? I always remember them -- by name, by issues, by their uniqueness -- their actual individuality. I have even continued to follow the escapades and achievements of a few, one of whom actually ended up on live television leading a police chase that rivaled O.J. Simpson's laconic trip on the L.A. freeways. God, I wish I could share his name, but obviously cannot. In fact, if my brother-unit discovers that I put his email exchange with a student smack dab in the middle of my blog -- big trouble! My former student's name was a combination of a garden implement and a past participle, together forming an unforgettable label. His family circumstances were never clear -- I met with his mother, uncle, and two siblings, all of whom had different last names.

He was tall, lanky, good-looking, with dreadlocks that one could not help but admire, that must have begun at birth, they were so long. He was quite brilliant, one of the few language students interested in francophone history and culture. He and his mother traveled to Senegal one Spring Break, and he derived enormous benefit from that trip -- not just in the old "broadening of horizons" category but in calmness and focus. He began what I hope will be a lifelong passion for African history and politics, particularly for the sometimes nefarious influences of European colonization. So he robbed a convenience store! So he flashed a gun in the process! So he drove that rusty old two-toned brown-on-brown Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme at a top speed of under 45 down one of the busiest highways in the country, cops trailing him like breadcrumbs. So what? He never passed a test, written or oral, but he was a great student.

Fred (remember Fred?) is being quite the trooper these days, and I need to find ways to make his life easier, less worrisome. Yesterday, he chauffeured me to the Wound Care Center, then across town for my appointment with Dr. PainDude. I did at least treat him to a nice lunch of lovely salad -- we had been discussing his elevated cholesterol! Tomorrow? We're off to the races! An aspiration of my left shoulder under fluoroscopy in the Outpatient Diagnostic Center! WooHoo. It is hard to find ways to honor Fred so I will try to be observant and ready.

Brandi -- we call her Brandi because that is her name -- was a tad bit overzealous in her debridement treatment efforts. There is nothing like having an ulcer scraped until bleeding to set off a nice cavalcade of pain in that particular CRPS-afflicted extremity.

"We love red!" she crows.

I was already at an 8/10 (Brandi *loves* the pain scale) prior to the Scraping Incident, and proceeded to held steady at that level of crankiness throughout the day. Our next stop was chez Dr, PainDude.

I never ask for an increase in pain medications -- in number of doses or strengths. I do sometimes try to get some sort of parallel adjunct therapy when dealing with something like acute-on-chronic pain situations, which has been the order of things since last October. I know, I know -- that sounds both stupid and improbable -- but I don't know how else to characterize the pain of infected prostheses. The *hope*, certainly, is that the problem is acute and not chronic, though strictly speaking, hairs are most likely being split. Anyway, always keeping it new and real, I try to ascertain what is behind the pain. Is it inflammation? Is it neuropathy? Am I in spasm? (NSAID; intercessionary prayer; Baclofen, respectively)

Dr. PainDude, thanks to God's goodness, has pretty much left me in the hands of his capable PA, less harried and hurried, with a great personality and "bedside" manner. Also, dare I say it -- oh, whoseblogisitanyway? She is a better practitioner than he is. Better questioner, history-taker. She teased out the fuzzy fact that I have been taking my breakthrough medication on a scheduled basis. I mean, I don't put Endocet into my labeled drug boxes. There is no actual schedule... I just end up usually needing help twice a day, around the same times. I am allowed four 7.5 mg pills and I have been taking 15 mg between 11 am and 1 pm, and another 15 mg between 9 pm and 11 pm. If there is pain during the night (hooting and slapping my knees!) or at any other time, I take ibuprofen. Lots of ibuprofen! In fact, I have been gobbling about 2000 mg a day, to the chagrin of my internist, who cannot seem to shake off my past kidney failures, the poor stickler.

We loves our ibuprofen, we does.

Capable PA asks: "Did it ever occur to you that we could increase your methadone dose and that that might decrease or eliminate your need for breakthrough meds?" Um, well, no. Never crossed my mind.

I try to switch the long-acting pain medication whenever a pattern of increasing dosage presents itself -- we try, again, to make a horizontal shift to an "equivalent" drug, but also try to come down on the dosage "equivalent." This method, I believe, has been what has kept me from needing more and more, and prevented dependence (beyond the minimal). I also play mindgames with myself by taking a monthly drug holiday, where I taper off the pain meds and spend a weekend unmedicated for pain. I taper pretty quickly -- over two or three days -- and that is probably stupid -- but I firmly believe that I am resetting and rebooting my "system." Dr. PainDude would likely shit a brick if he knew. Good thing he doesn't know, then, though I hate to deprive him of the experience.

Okay... however! The old "yes, but."

My experience with methadone has been squirrelly. The last time we used it? During a time when I had been hit by pneumonia and then a stomach virus, my dose was apparently too high for my metabolism (or sumpthin') and built up alarmingly fast in my body until achieving toxic levels. Given its long half-life and with the precarious nature of my immune and endocrine systems, I went into Addisonian crisis -- and the Addisonian crisis was not picked up until I was on a ventilator, with another pneumonia, and in organ failure. It took a lot of convincing to get me back on methadone (Fentanyl was what we turned to after that, um, event) and I only agreed to a relatively small dosage initially. In fact, the dose is less than half what it was when I crashed and burned. It has been two years, and the dose has never been increased! The Fredster is scared to death of the stuff -- and I can understand his feelings -- he is the one, after all, who found me on the bathroom floor, not breathing.

Poor baby. He could not think to call 911 -- he called my internist, was put on hold, and then was told, of course, to call 911. He shakes and cries at the memory. I wish I could give the gift of forgetfulness.

I am so glad that Dr. PainDude's Capable PA walked me through my fears, that she took her undoubtedly precious time to allow me a few moments to consider stuff and ask questions. She left it like this: a prescription adding one more dose of methadone per day, which I can take however it seems most effective after some experimentation. As always, I am free to not take it. (That is one of the many things that bugs me! You will hear "pain patients" moaning about side effects -- never to the extent where they consider stopping the drug, mind you! If you question them, you'll find that they missed out on the distribution of Free Will and cannot conceive of NOT taking a medication "as directed" despite the fact that they are obviously abusing the drugs. I have met people who insist that it makes perfect sense to take every pain or mind-altering drug that has ever been ordered for them on a mix-and-max basis -- never mind that most were meant to be taken as needed, or that different doctors, essentially revolving around different spheres, have been the Rx authors. Why, it seems that I could go on and on about the faults of other people: the luxury of the perfect.)

An additional perk comes with Capable PA -- she used to work for a surgeon who ended up in the same spot as me, having only one shoulder due to the removal of an infected prosthesis. And his OS is also my OS. Speak of the damn devil, eh? She says he is still without a new prosthesis over a year later and is going, in her words, insane. He is also having trouble getting his pain under good management -- and he doesn't have to deal with my underlying stuff of AVN, CRPS and SLE (and the partridge in a pear tree...). Poor me! He also is not facing the loss of his other damned shoulder.

I am trying to be good and calm, a well-balanced adult-type person, as I plan for coming home shoulderless. Fred can't seem to grasp it, at all, which I can understand. Who thinks of things like "how will I wipe my butt, wash, eat, get in and out of bed, and so on" but the patient? How will I manage the pain given that it is out of control *now* is more of a truly private point to ponder. I have already had to abuse my right arm -- to the point where you can actually hear the grinding of the spacer -- just to do mundane tasks for which I refuse to ask assistance. I know how much my dear Fred can take, and it is nowhere near as much as he loves to allege!

Aw, hell.

There has been no date set. They would dearly love to identify the freakish little pathogens at the root of this evil and so are hoping that this aspiration yields information. From dropped hints, though, I gather that surgery will be sooner rather than later.

I have a great deal more orthopedic hardware in me... how will they know that those other spots are or are not infected? I cannot keep going through this.

The cats, television, four books, several magazines, and one obsessive computer game have also become integral to my pain management. Taking care of the pets, of Fred, of Marlinspike Hall, sweeping up the Tête de Hergé? These are great for providing what little movement I am allowed to make. And I do ask Fred for help. For instance, transferring clothes from the washer to the dryer? Impossible. He is a terrific laundry aid and bed clothes changer. And last week he mopped the kitchen floor. Never forget that he hauls my sorry ass and the chair it sits in all around the city and does not complain. He curses a lot but he does not overtly complain!

I was planning to clean the house on Sunday but Sunday turned out to be pain-filled and I just could not do it. Yesterday was even worse. Today? I think I will give it a go. In my household manager parlance, one has the choice between doing a Full-Assed Job Of It or a Half-Assed Job Of It. The latter option appeals... and, of course, two back-to-back Half-Assed Jobs more than equals one Full-Assed Job.

Last night, Fred started pitching the idea of starting a Book Club. This evolved into holding play readings -- something we used to do with regularity up at Gothic Wonderland University. It was really quite fun -- gathering with a bunch of people to read Shakespeare by candlelight, throwing off our pod covers of restraint so that it was read with depth and soul. There was something liberating about the constant shift in attendees and the freedom of being part-hidden. We gave it our all and left behind daily cares and fatigue. Okay, so there were occasional awkward moments when ex-lovers found themselves paired by Shakespearean banter! (Amazingly, the love action at Gothic Wonderland University was INTENSE and often kinda bawdy, earthily chaucerian.)

Anyway, Fred finally landed on the notion of actually staging plays, and would like to start with Sartre's No Exit. Okie-dokie, honey! He once wrote an extensive study of the staging of Equus, and I am just grateful he didn't pick that.

Jadis, si je me souviens bien... Once, if memory serves me well, I was happy there.

No, Retired Educator! Don't look into that bright light, don't go there!

There is much more in my rotting pot today... but am decidedly losing my edge. And so, ciao babies. Oh, Villon! How about closing with his most famous?

Ballade des dames du temps jadis

Dites-moi où, n'en quel pays,
Est Flora la belle Romaine,
Archipiades, ni Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Écho parlant quand bruit on mène
Dessus rivière ou sur étang,
Qui beauté eut trop plus qu'humaine
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

Où est la très sage Héloïs,
Pour qui fut châtré et puis moine
Pierre Abelard à Saint-Denis?
Pour son amour eut cette essoine.
Semblablement, où est la reine
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fut jeté en un sac en Seine?
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

La reine Blanche comme lis
Qui chantait à voix de sirène,
Berthe au grand pied, Bietris, Alis,
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jeanne la bonne Lorraine
Qu'Anglais brûlèrent à Rouen;
Où sont-ils, où, Vierge souvraine?
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

Prince, n'enquerez de semaine
Où elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu'à ce refrain ne vous remaine:
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

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***Unbelievable! It occured to me that the reference to "Jadis, si je me souviens bien..." needed elucidation, and then my thinking went off course {shock!}, wondering what those of you who might be inclined toward such arcane knowledge might find, were you to plug the phrase into Google... and? Ohmygod-Ohmygod-Obladi-Oblada! Such a Rash of Errata! Folks, please spread the word, that thus begins Rimbaud's Une Saison en Enfer:

Jadis, si je me souviens bien, ma vie était un festin où s'ouvraient tous les coeurs, où tous les vins coulaient.

Un soir, j'ai assis la Beauté sur mes genoux. - Et je l'ai trouvée amère. - Et je l'ai injuriée.

It chaps my hide to find it cited and either falsely attributed or declared one of the more profound thoughts that Anonymous ever had. Grrrrrrrrr.