so... i'm sorry, okay? it's just that every now and then i decompensate.
[which would be a reason but not an excuse. jeez, but you people are rough on a girl.]
i'm taking another mini-break from blogging, although experience tells me that merely making that announcement is a surefire way to recapture my own flagging interest.
the visit to the surgeon yesterday was good, in that i like him and he tends to get the various balls rolling. the visit was bad, in that so much remains... hors la portée.
we cannot rule out infection of the left prosthesis but we now have another very evident reason for some of the pain and dysfunction, at least. there is supposed to be a subacromial space in the shoulder, a gap in the joint, that is generally of around 9 or 10 cm.
below 6 cm of space, it's considered a problem.
i am in the negative -- i have no space. i have negative space. were the prosthesis not there -- and there with such élan! for it is there, and jauntily! -- were that hunk o'metal absent, it'd be just another one of my collapsed joints. i am too familiar with the concept of collapsed joints and rotting bones -- with all their translations into krapola and ouch -- thanks to years of avascular necrosis. there is also the odd klunk of bones trying to settle into some acceptable version of order and boniness (that'd be the weird audio component of AVN: the sound of joints settling. disconcerting, this sound.)
the quote i love so much is burrowing through my very depressed mind. next, then, the traditional moment with spinoza:
i would rather hear and know this than all the promises of heaven and salvation. sometimes, don't you just want the truth? unvarnished, prickly? capable of collapse, were it bones?
oh, hell, the important distinctions, the big ass caveat: the endeavor is NOT what has been called the [evolutionary] struggle for existence, no way, jose! it is simpler -- and harder -- than that:
a translator who likes to nail things down, elwes also adds:
When it is spoken of in reference to the human mind only, it is equivalent to the will; in reference to the whole man, it may be called appetite.there. now spinoza and his scrappy translator grace the page. i can relax.
or i can persevere and persist in my (own) being. how about it? wanna join me?
okay, so we have the squirrelly case of the disappearing rotator cuff muscles, which, being trapped between pitiful bones were nonetheless dispatched, disappeared, and definitively poofed away, away!
he gave me a cortisone injection, which helped for about an hour, thanks not to the steroids but to the hefty dose of anesthetic involved. knowing how i feel about such injections, he gave rapid lip service to the benefit/risk ratio. bless the man. he may be the only one on the ball... and since he's the one with all the scalpels, that's a good thing.
no word had been passed to him by either my go-to-guy or the new infectious disease dood. the three of them all chatted today, however, and i have been sending emails back and forth to go-to-guy. new ID dood opines, as did the consult we got last august, that if there is a bacterial bad boy, he votes for propionibacterium acnes, based on the deep reasoning that -- now, follow along:
i feel like i am surrounded by idiots.
that is a dangerous thing to say, the kind of thing that can get a person condemned to hell, or that can at least give you a terrible reputation and keep you out of the country club.
so go-to-guy has come up with what feels novel to him [because he has completely forgotten about the lame ass consult of last summer, the one where fred and i traversed the wilds of tête de hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) aboard a convivial ruby, the honda crv, only to spend a total of 7 minutes with the illustrious doctor man. illustrious doctor man hemmed and hawed (but not much -- i mean, it took all of 7 minutes... that's including the disrobing, the exam, the review of records, the documentation -- in fact, he had it all written up already, he had already concluded, the book was déjà closed. "i took the liberty of speaking with your surgeon, who is known to me...." sigh. dickwad. and that was the genesis of the propionibacterium acnes element of our folklore.] --
whoa, nellie! if i were you, gentle reader? i would bale out of that paragraph! [whether you are to BAIL or BALE out is but another conundrum] what a mess!
anyway, back to go-to-guy, who is doing an admirable job of ignoring every reference i make to impending suicide. he wants to do a course of doxycycline. a course, that is, of ORAL doxycycline. i think the poor boy is confusing a bad case of zits (a shout out to my former friends at PTZ!) with the lingering, well-hid pestilence known as osteomyelitis. but whatever floats his boat and more power to him for deigning to do anything! something, anything! i came * this close to quizzing him about the types of barriers that would have to be traversed, etcetera but, thankfully, i managed to be a teeny bit decorous.
my crp is so high no one will tell me what it is. that bugs the good bejesus out of me. i can pass along all the other lab values... but the crp is gonna... what? make me faint?
i am being referred to one of shoulder man's colleagues, the hipster, because my right hip is refractured.
the easiest solution of all, in terms of diagnostic testing, would be one fucker of an mri. and that won't happen because of the incredible number of implants, screws, and such that cause the images to torque to high heaven.
shoulder man introduced the idea of a reverse shoulder replacement, a funky little design that is exactly what it sounds like: