One fell poop

My life is all over the place, in pieces, disparate -- but my ass is firmly in the bed. My legs are acting up and if they aren't elevated, well, it ain't pretty. And it hurts.

Given that we have to hit the road tomorrow and Tuesday, I am trying to get them in as good a shape as possible. By Tuesday night, they will be frozen blue-black tree trunks.

Tomorrow, we have the Infectious Disease folk at 11 am, and then we get to tour the metro area of Tête de Hergé in order to pick up all my medical records in preparation for Tuesday's trip to see this Super Guru Specialist Dude.

Doesn't it seem like I ought to be dreaming about that whole process and not milky-blue glass chakras?

Supposedly, Super Guru Specialist Dude is seeing me at 1 pm Tuesday. It has yet to be writ in stone, though. I am not sure what the issue is -- I think it is as simple as entering my information into the Medical School's computer. Also, I guess she is still trying to work out the insurance issues. I was to have received a few phone calls of verification that never came.

Arg.

I am pleased to report that Uncle Kitty Big Balls (Sorry, but we are still waiting for his name to show up. I have suggested "Stumpy," "Gimp," and "Ragamuffin," and all three have been shot down. *Derisively*, I might add. So, really, he remains "Little Boy," "Pickle Head," and, most appropriately, "Stinky Boy.") -- that UKBB is happy, eating, sleeping, pooping, and playing. He looks like he has been through hell, and since he has been through hell, we think he looks just fine.

Every so often, he will land on that back leg, wince, and pull up short. The next thing you know, he goes flying by, in hot pursuit of Dobby -- who is thrilled to have another cat who loves speed and butt whacks.

Oops. Ignore the "butt whacks." It's a private thing.

Little Boy, like his sister Marmy, can create stink bombs that ought to part of a national military arsenal. I mean, Marlinspike Hall is nothing if not spacious and airy, you dig? And still... one fell poop by Little Boy and all creatures, great and small, start running for the drawbridge, praying that it is already in position over the moat.

I continue to feel guilt at my well-practiced inactivity. I did mop one of the kitchen floors -- twice, even -- and have done some laundry. Day before yesterday, I managed to rotate the mattress in our bedroom, and change the sheets and pillow cases. I feed and water the animals twice a day. I do the dishes.

But who are we kidding? That adds up to "not much," and the fact that after each task I had to rest and take pain meds sort of detracts from my usual panache.

I have a feeling that we still ought to be gearing up for a trip to Baltimore. But one thing at a time, yes? The thought of having to go has begun to panic me. How am I going to manage this alone -- because Fred will not be able to come along.

Dr. Go-To-Guy opines that we should direct our questions to the Infectious Disease Department there, rather than the Orthopedic Surgery Department. It makes sense when you study the breakdown of research interests within eact one. It makes even more sense when you consider that we will have taken the ortho approach already, given the upcoming visit with Super Guru Specialist Dude.

Dr. Go-To-Guy was no help, however, in helping me figure out what to do in the immediate sense. I think we are back to the point of everyone waiting for me to call up, saying -- "Okay, I am at the point where I cannot stand it anymore." Then ShoulderMan will go forward, even if he is still operating in the dark.

It has become too much of an onus, too much to ask of a patient. The only reason I have any expertise is because this is my body. But it shouldn't be up to me to determine when surgery ought to happen. There have been MANY times in the last 2-3 weeks when I was ready to lop off my arm. Then again, there have been hundreds of times when the idea of a DIY amputation of my legs has seemed like the best idea ever.

There is a task I dread doing, should I be sent on to Johns Hopkins. I had a sort of friend... that is the most honest expression... I had a sort of friend who shared one of my "conditions" and who repeatedly sought out a certain Hopkins surgeon. He's no longer there and did not leave for any reason other than dealing with a thriving career. She had as many as four or five surgeries per visit to Baltimore. Anyway, last year her story did not end well, but it did end. I had been a frequent vociferous voice of opposition to the excess of surgeries that never seemed to solve any problems. There was no joy in being right. There was no joy in the many painful months she spent at home, in pain, feeling useless, biding time until the next round of surgeries. Taking enough meds to have killed herself many times over.
If it was prescribed, Virginia felt obliged to take it, and take it often.

God, did I bitch at her.

Anyway, one of things Virginia did was research how to stay in Baltimore "on the cheap" -- so I need to go back over her emails and get the many details she graciously provided.

I wish I had been a friend to her instead of constantly taking her moral inventory. What a snotty bitch. I thought it was a *role* I was playing, as I watched other serve as "sympathizers." It was no role; Her life was no fiction, no drama. I had no right.