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.

it's not my fault. i'm sorry.

So we are waiting patiently for the vet's office to call and tell us that Uncle Kitty Big Ball's toe has been successfully chopped off, but a watched phone never boils.

In the interim, I have been battling my persistent vegetative state. My motivation? The surly look from The Fredster last night, when I called out, "Ooooo, Fred! Would you mind, heh-heh-heh, hooking me up?"

Twice a day, roughly at noon and midnight, he connects me to my "medicine ball" full of vancomycin -- which involves washing his hands, flushing various lines with saline and heparin, disposing of trash, and so on. By midnight, he's entitled to a slight attitude. But the surly look? It's rare that he lets that loose on me. Surly progressed to outright hateful when I posed the question that I keep forgetting is forbidden: "Are you alright?" That engendered a plain-but-effective glare. Unfortunately, I had a follow-up question, the first having been so well received. Yes, the inimitable: "What's wrong?"

After slamming in the heparin, unclamping the old medicine ball, he turned around and walked out.

I turned out the lights in the bedroom and just sat on the side of the bed, strangely calm. There are moments when I am profoundly grateful that I'm as old as I am, as experienced as I am. I just sat... thinking of Fred's day. How had it begun?

Too early, that's for sure. How had we greeted one another?

I complained and asked for a favor, straight away. Did he have to tend to my needs often during the day?

He had to do some housework that I would normally do, and also fend off my commentary about it. He had to drive a good distance to the Infectious Disease Dood's office to pick up my week's supply of vancomycin, and take Uncle Kitty Big Balls to the vet's place as well. That ate up about four hours of his day. Later that evening, around 10 pm, he went grocery shopping -- to get me the yogurt that makes the vanco bearable!

Oh, there were a few loads of laundry done somewhere in there, as well. Dishes...

Normally, I'd seek Fred out immediately after a touchy encounter, and not sit on the side of the bed, in the dark. I would force a smoothing-over. I would insist on forgiveness and clarification.

I felt very calm, and very tired. I went to sleep and didn't wake up until 5 am -- a long stretch, for me.

I finished the laundry -- managing to transfer the heavy wet clothes to the dryer by judicious use of my "grabber" and various curses that apparently work as magic words. I sort of managed to fold them -- at least, they occupy less area than prior to my efforts. After being literally thrown into the closet, well, they are, at least, clean.

I fed everyone.

I washed my hair -- no mean feat. Cleaned the microwave, mopped the kitchen floor -- twice. Readied the syringes for the day. Wrote some emails. Worried about some finances (without finding any relief).

And when Fred woke up, I spied out the best time for him to "hook me up," as close as possible to the noon hour.

I was proud, inside, that I could foresee nothing for which I would have to beg assistance today. I was determined to do for myself whatever needed doing.

The Infectious Disease office called mid-afternoon, while he was out washing the car. How was I? Have I been infusing the vancomycin as prescribed? Uh, I am what I am, and yes, of course, I am a dedicated doser.

My blood work from Monday came back all wacky.

The PA is insisting I come back in to have more blood drawn.

Fred has paused mid-task, and looks to be soaking up the sun. My Darling Ruby, the Honda CR-V, is fairly glistening, all dappled-happy. My guy sees me looking out and waves, points proudly to my shimmering car, then turns his attention to filling up the bird feeders.

In my head begins the litany: it's not my fault. i'm sorry. it's not my fault. i'm sorry. it's not my fault. i'm sorry. it's not my fault. i'm sorry. it's not my fault. i'm sorry. it's not my fault. i'm sorry. it's not my fault. i'm sorry. it's not my fault. i'm sorry. it's not my fault. i'm sorry.

LATE-BREAKING NEWS ON UNCLE KITTY BIG BALLS: He is out of surgery, which proved to be more extensive than anticipated, in that she had to take about half of the associated metatarsal bone as well as the "toe" itself. She also found another abscess on the other hind leg (which was already nursing a pretty severe one...). Poor baby. He has to stay overnight, as they are oxygenating the wound and she wants to monitor the output, etc. He must think that his life on the street is far preferable than the one we have condemned him to... So, tomorrow, we liberate the cat after I donate blood at the ID Dood's Chop Shop.

Undifferentiated Mush

I haven't slept in 44 hours. Oddly enough, I find myself fighting the urge to sleep. This tends to happen when I'm stressed -- but really, if this is stress, then I am one lucky person. The surgery on Monday, and the tedium of being in the hospital, probably in isolation again, is exacting its toll -- in advance.

How do I know I will be stuck on the other side of people floating in yellow paper gowns with shockingly bright blue latex-free gloves? Because I have assurances it won't happen from my internist and his Supernurse Sidekick, from the admitting orthopedic surgeon, his PA, *and* his nurse, from the Infectious Disease doctor and *two* of his PAs, as well as from the Director of the Infusion Center.

Each person is quite sincere and well-meaning -- and all of them make reference to "common sense." And yet, not one of them is willing to do the leg work of ordering cultures, then checking on the results, and writing orders implementing or discontinuing the innumerable ickitudes of isolation. I know this because of the previous four admissions during which we danced this same dance.

La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore refuses the paper and plastic garb. She either sneaks in without them to begin with, or dons them with great fanfare out in the hall, only to rip them off like a cheap costume once inside the room. Ah, ah, ah! Je ris! Oui, je ris! Simplement de me voir, si si si, si belle dans ce sacré miroir, ah-ah-ahhhh! I know, I know! Out of the bonny blue she has begun to produce operatic riffs...

Anyway, I have plugged my nares with antibiotics, washed every inch of my body with Hibiclens, lanced the multitude of dark, oozing, stinking boils... just kidding about that last part. "Multitude" is kind of an overstatement, used for shock value.

So this afternoon, as the preregistration nurse is doing her thing an d swabbing the nares and the axillary hot spots, I will be smiling my secret smile, secure in the knowledge that Science is going to fail me, once again.

I bet you a dollar. The results will be negative, no growth -- but because hospital protocol requires two successive negative results, that is where the ball will get dropped. I can orchestrate the production before surgery -- but after? That's a different ball of sealing wax.

It is within the realm of the possible that you've no idea what I am babbling about. Don't worry, for you are not alone in falling short of perfection. I have a clusterfuck of medical issues -- lupus, avascular necrosis (which engendered three joint replacements and several pinnings, plates, and screws of fractured bones), adrenal (and renal!) insufficiency, and the everlovin' CRPS/RSD. Oh yeah, and a fair amount of aortic regurgitation.

Also an aortic aneurism.
And a partridge in a pear tree.

The short version of the pertinent? Somewhere along the line, pathogens moved into both of shoulder prostheses -- and then developed into a more classic osteomyelitis. Last August/September, my awesome orthopedic surgeon removed my right shoulder prosthesis due to massive infection and "replaced" it with a silly little antibiotic-impregnated spacer. This surgery did not go very well, and resulted in schtuff like ventilators, pressors, ICU, and an extra visit to the surgical theatre. Despite having lots of evidence for the lab to work with, nothing grew in the cultures. In December, he had to remove the left shoulder prosthesis, and gifted me with another spacer. The infection spread into the entire shaft of the humerus, which -- in ShoulderMan's words -- "pretty much exploded." Mid-February, he went back in on the right side, and put in another total shoulder prosthesis. We are hoping to repeat that achievement this coming Monday on the left side.

I know that my navel is not the center of the universe. Trust me, I am as disgusted as you by this constant worrying and teasing of details over which I have no control -- and about which you have little interest.



How did I miss that the Taliban are within spitting distance of Islamabad? Was it because of that navel thing, or maybe fever, pain? No. I was, quite simply, derelict in my duty as a Planetary Citizen.*

ISLAMABAD, Pakistan — Pushing deeper into Pakistan, Taliban
militants have established effective control of a strategically important district just 70 miles from the capital, Islamabad, officials and residents said Wednesday.

The Taliban pushed into Pakistan from the Swat Valley. We are assured that Islamabad is not in imminent danger, and yet:

Buner, home to about one million people, is a gateway to a major Pakistani city, Mardan, the second largest in North-West Frontier Province, after
Peshawar.

“They take over Buner, then they roll into Mardan and that’s the end of
the game,” a senior law enforcement official in North-West Frontier Province
said. He asked that his name be withheld because was not authorized to speak to
the news media.

My God. I think it is time to focus on what matters.

*"The beliefs I have to defend are so soft and complicated, actually, and, when vivisected, turn into bowls of undifferentiated mush. I am a pacifist, I am an anarchist, I am a planetary citizen, and so on." Kurt Vonnegut