Welcome to Marlinspike Hall, ancestral home of the Haddock Clan, the creation of Belgian cartoonist Hergé.
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I had my "evaluate and treat" first appointment with outpatient Occupational Therapy yesterday. Why?
Darling Readers, you really must follow along. This blog is nothing if not one long complaint, studded with humorous illustrative anecdotes, spiced and spruced by the esoteric contributions of life in Marlinspike Hall, ancestral home of the Haddock family, and all situated in the Tête de Hergé (primarily the region west of the Lone Alp).
I've been dumped into the outpatient therapy division of Kaiser Permanente's HMO because about a week before my foot and leg decided to develop cellulitis, I woke one morning to find my right hand had turned into a claw.
Not to bore the More Dedicated Readers, here's the situation, upper-body-wise. My left hand is functional but weak. Mostly it is a great hand, friendly, compliant. However, the left arm ascends into sartrean nothingness, as I lack a shoulder joint on that side. This limits the range of motion, and definitely any comfortable range of motion, in the arm, and the reach of the hand. Try washing the right side of your body with a left hand that won't reach your right arm. It's hilarious. It can function well within the confines of its reach, and can and does go beyond, usually incurring plenty of pain as a result, but immense satisfaction should my desired action succeed.
What comes to mind is the most recent valiant performance of that left side -- tossing what turned out to be a horribly excessive amount of kosher salt into a delicate one-pot wonder.
Ah, I stray.
The right shoulder is a prosthetic but only minimally painful, due to the ministrations of the most wonderful orthopedic surgeon on Earth. I tend to forget the elbow reconstruction of some six or seven years ago -- also an excellent job, though the hardware is beginning to shift.
Shifting hardware. Now that's a sensation.
I've had radial and ulnar palsies in that right hand in the past, and each time they just went away, like in a fairy tale.
The current claw has only gotten worse.
And was of minimal concern to every doctor, nurse, and housekeeping staffer I encountered, until a very sweet and knowledgeable OT made me a very personal splint while in the hospital. She pegged it as CRPS, completely neurological, and one of those things that "just happens" with CRPS.
You go to bed with a functional hand and wake with a claw.
So the only advice was "wear the splint 2 hours on, 2 hours off, and sleep with a rolled up washcloth in the vise grip of your lobster-like appendage." Oh, and go see an outpatient OT.
The news yesterday was the same.
After I mentioned that my goal was a return to normal function, and to not hear that nasty phrase: "This is your new normal."
Five minutes into the evaluation, my goals were reiterated by the therapist, in spades, leading with: "It looks like this is your new normal. Our goal is to keep it from getting worse..."
It went on and on. She knew her stuff but was into reinventing the wheel, which would be fine, were that of benefit to me. Lots of manipulation of both hands via various tests.
With the result that my pinky and ring finger on the LEFT hand are now curling, curling inward and responding with snarling and snarky pain when I insist that they function correctly.
Yesterday was Lumpy's birthday and so one call, made while he was out, consisted of me singing the requisite tune to his answering machine (yes, an answering machine), while the second call consisted of him pumping me for info about me. The little I got from my dear brother was that he barely made it through Monday's classes, that the radiation has done nothing for his pain, and that he ended up buying the medication that his oncologist, pharmacist, nurses, and insurance helpmates could not manage to have correctly approved, filled, and paid for in over a month.
We shared a moment of tired awe.
He's brilliantly brave, struggling to make his voice vibrant long enough to get through the birthday calls. No mention of my gift, so that was a bust. I suck at gift-giving, so there's no harm, no foul. I just wish that this year, of all years, I might have gotten it right.
I don't think I can lose him.
Totally different sort of despair than losing hands, losing a precious friend, mentor, sibling. He still needs to teach me how to snap my fingers correctly, and how to spit. I want to play one more game of hide-and-seek, where I hide for hours, and emerge to find that he left for baseball practice hours ago. Malted milk balls galore, water polo for hours, musicology 101, and half-court tennis matches. Agreement that there will always be a need and a coziness in literary history, no matter the lit crit trends.
Figuring the day had not slashed at me quite enough, I made other calls -- the call to Lumpy having been desired, just unexpectedly... hard. I checked in with the Sister-Unit, who was, of course, in a bookstore. The conversation acquired that whispering-in-a-library quality and bored her, apparently, as I got a sudden "gotta go, hang in there, and stay tuned!"
It could be that she was busy. Maybe she found an interesting book, or met up with a beloved fellow bookworm. Her birthday is day after tomorrow.
She and Lumpy are step-siblings, born three days apart. My brother was born in London, my stepsister in North Carolina. Occasionally, my stepmom and those two would mess with school registrars' minds.
"Twins?" they would hesitantly suggest.
Stepmom would lay out the geographies of their births, as her son and daughter, clearly fraternal as heck if twins, stood looking twinly. Then she'd deliver the coup de grâce:
"Longest three days of my life."
Anyway. Sister-Unit relayed that stepmom had fallen, but was okay, and that her momentous day -- a move into Assisted Living -- was penciled in for next Thursday. Stepmom, all 85 pounds of her, has turned into a striking viper at the mention of it. The gift of short term memory loss at least shortens the period of hissing and tongue-flicking, but no one envies Sister-Unit and her Studly Partner their task next week.
It is sad, but the heart hardens over what must be.
Or mine has.
What a terrible admission.
Lastly, I called the BioMom Unit. Everything in me wanted to scream at her that her son was being laid low by vicious cancer and that I resented being born, but instead we talked, at length and with considerable comedy, about how her dead husband is cheating on her -- but only with pregnant women. He was an Ob/Gyn. She was a hoot.
Usually, I try to gently reorient her.
Not yesterday. Within her concocted world, she made perfect sense. So I reminded her how much her husband loved her, and she rested easily in that.
I cannot slough off more work on Fred, with the feeble excuse of having no hands. This cannot be my "new normal."
I've been thinking of dear Lumpy all day -- office hours, two classes, radiation, and an infusion of chemotherapy.
Convinced that my new normal reeks of my continued uselessness.
Time for the splint! Time to check on The Fredster. Time to extract the "poor me" from other sentient beings' beings. If they ever do want or need me, this is not the me they're expecting.
as it was in the beginning... now the thumb is a quivering
quibbling digit. all praise the mighty index finger!
It's been a rough week, the kind where the best communication turns out to be reminding the people whom you love that you do, indeed, love them. It makes for a shorter phone call, a blink-of-an-eye visit, and calls for just a tiny greeting card, though the cost of postage does not change.
Growing up, Sunday was the day for obligatory phone calls to family members living far, far away. Granted, it was usually my immediate family that bore the responsibility for the distance issue. We tended to be overseas, or living somewhere inaccessible to even those relatives who enjoyed travel. Or I could be honest and say that no one really gave a crap, and the Sunday telephone ritual was just another thing to check off the list.
I managed three calls today.
Those Dear Readers who've been with me a while know that my use of the telephone is, itself, miraculous, as I find it the least endearing mode of communication of the many modes we have in this technological age.
For instance, Grader Boob, one of my two beloved Brother-Units, is now so weak that his voice does not carry efficiently to the telephone receiver. He prefers "Lumpy" now to GB, but that's just trivia. And a lie. He has no sense of humor discernible any longer, cancer's gift, pain's offering. As for his voice, part of it is also, I am guessing, change brought about by impingement of various nerves by those nefarious Lumps about which we so want to joke.
He could out grim the Grim Reaper, and will, I hope. Grumpy Lumpy seems to be so intensely in a snit because his life has been destroyed in what must feel like an overnight happening, despite what hindsight now reveals as a vine-like underground creep over a decade, culminating in Kudzu's blazing speed once that first tendril found the sun.
His pain is unimaginable, even to me, the Queen of Pain. His perennial lack of social graces, once endearing, now has the edge of a feudal samurai sword, his made to accommodate one-handed lunges. It's just a matter, really, of a shorter grip. Maybe a tanto grip with a freaking 4-5 foot ōdachi blade. I carry a small antique tanto in my obi, as do all my female friends. Bianca Castafiore, we all know, is never without her 06 F.A.S.T. from Gerber. She swears by the G-10 handle. In a nod toward beauty, my dagger handle is a subtle, but distinctive, teal-green silk cord and black samé -- ray skin -- topped with a black iron tsuba bearing a dragonfly motif.
None of us bother with saya, or scabbards. Marlinspike Hall's women are famous for our mastery and obsession with fabrics of incredible tensile strength, and their artistic draping, which most men assume comes from a lurid obsession with shiny, metallic, decorative threading. Yes, we live for the glint of reinforced brocade on a clear, hot summer day.
Lumpy's issue is the same problem that turned the ōdachi into a ceremonial thing, a spiritual weapon. The answer, I think, to the obstacle of how to carry his very particular sword, and successfully draw it, lies in providing him with a trusty steed, though that might attract undue attention as he canters about the hallways of higher learning. Better might be an unobtrusive trusty sidekick. Like a dedicated sister in a wheelchair. I could pass off six feet of sword as a stylized assistive mobility device, no problem. Who better to have his blessèd back? Plus, I can help with any grading duties, and be the one to chuck chalk at any undergraduates who dare nap during class.
And here you thought a samurai sword reference was to end in its metaphorical stage! We are a knife-wielding clan, we are. You should see some of Fred's knives. His nonchalant explanation for seemingly artless features -- a notch here, an odd finish to the metal, a strange blunt affect -- can chill my blood. He and Abbot Truffatore do not so much resemble Boy Scouts comparing five-tooled pocketknives as handy camping tools when they extricate their shiny toys from humble scabbards and lay them on felt-covered table tops as they seem men under the ancient enchantment of war.
So, though weak in body and voice, this Brother-Unit remains obstinately militarized, and determined to try teaching this semester -- two courses in person and one as an internet prof. I want him to succeed; I know he won't. And so pardon my fantasy of squiring him à la Sancho Panza, ready, in the end, to do wheelies and behead the archaic administrators who failed him, impale the students who worked him into weakness, slash the desks and podia that his university maintained instead of providing health care for those who sat and leaned there.
I hate these Sunday calls.
And then there was the dear sister, caring for a waning mother, blindly navigating the end-of-life barriers thrown in their way by that same health care system that has failed the rest of this fucked-up family. Mom is unaware of the obstacles she dodges, her memory gone, or maybe that stealthy faculty forces her to relive each trouble more than is useful. The Sister-Unit has become a faithful nurse, tending three bed sores, feeding a weak 81-pound matriarch. Her partner has leukemia -- that's some punchline, eh? He is doing well, however, though they are smartly close-mouthed about it. He's a Prince, a Peach, a Pear, which is the highest accolade of my people.
I did not even consider asking to speak to Mom. In my mind, likely as confused as hers, I am an abstract construct to her. The child who caused so much trouble. The child who said "thanks, but no thanks" some 24 years ago, and by letter, not phone. I'd had enough, enough doublespeak, enough lies, enough suppression, oppression. I was careful to express my real gratitude for the raising, for the good times, for the afternoon on the sailboat, for the tea and toast, for the tips on dumping drinks into potted plants at cocktail parties, and the admonitions to stand up straight and be proud of my height.
She taught the art of thank-you notes, of indexing social debts (keeping a tit-for-tat list of Christmas card recipients and a neat list of who attended what party and what outfit she had worn to each). She taught the power of obligation, the complexities of generations. She was, too, a teacher. Of little ones, but they are the most precious of all. I did a brief stint as a substitute in a second grade classroom and was more terrified than when I faced a room full of savvy, educated, bright-as-the-moon, inquisitive young men and women. It was Mom's influence that tainted my university teaching with the same urge to protect and defend that comes so naturally on behalf of six-year-olds. (Sometimes that was a problem.)
I wished the Sister-Unit good courage and good luck, as she fights for some semblance of coordinated care, hires nurses, and deals with an overfed dog now prone to urinary incontinence. Oh, and a doctor who opines only the glaringly obvious and does not return her polite phone calls. It's not his mother, what does he care? Oh, I take that back. He's perfectly competent. There's nothing to do but muddle through.
The other mother, the biological Mother-Unit? I don't call, or not often, and cannot face it today. She's likely to make a perfunctory inquiry about her first set of boys, and I cannot spit out the perfunctory lies, not today. Maybe I should call, but have ready the most non-perfunctory of retorts. "Lumpy? After winning Wimbledon, he took a brief rest in Monte Carlo -- you know what a gamer he is -- before sporting the yellow jersey on the Tour. Right now, he's gearing up for a stint as Compositional Inquisitor. He gets to wear flowing robes and a pouffy hat, Ma. Isn't that grand?"
Of the other sweet Brother-Unit, I could just wow her with the truth, but her dementia, like her normal state, won't admit too much of the stuff. So I'd say something like: "He still proudly marches to the beat of his own drum and radiates compassion and equanimity into the wavelengths of the universe, Ma, just like I told you last time."
The third call? To an evangelical busybody who delights in telling me what to do and then, in undermining my efforts. This week she taught me a valuable lesson about trust, as in: Don't do it. So the third call was harsh but easy. Her proselytizing had brought her no Godly approbation, just the stench of manure spread on burning sulfur. That may be overstating the matter. I'll let you know.
How am I? How do you think? I'm in terrible physical pain, my right hand and foot have seceded from the union, I cannot eat, barely drink, sleep in fits, spasm at the whim of invisible cattle prods, and am returned to the days of fever and sweats, lethargy. Despite that, I take my cue from my siblings, a hardy bunch, smart enough to know that the only way through is through. That there is still music, and that even death is funny.
I cannot bear much more of this, but we all know I will. My piddling troubles are as nothing. I still recognize beauty and humor -- but they must be either exquisite or of admirable kitsch.
Anyone wishing to argue about space and time continua or parallel string bikinis may simply go take a dip in the moat.
Because, damn it, Monday is over. We start fresh. All devices have been charged. The Manor is pristine, the grounds are pruned, raked, and -- where absolutely necessary -- mowed. Sven Feingold putters about giggling, so something is up with the latest ManorFest Maze design. La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore stays on her cell, when she can get reception, because she is *this* close to garnering a position as spokesperson for a major weight loss company that specializes in busty divas. Just the exercise and muscle toning from running up and down turret stairs and sprinting around Captain Haddock's miniature submarine wormhole gateway will make her lose a few dozen dress sizes. Should Marlinspike Hall ever successfully be enveloped in a wifi bubble, the Milanese Nightingale may well gain back all the fat she's discarded chasing a phone signal.
Our various herds and fruit orchards are all in their proper states. The monks next door are reworking their Christmas Catalog of Wasted Calories and the Abbot, Fred, and I have been designated taste-testers. Life is sweet.
But Monday.
The Mother-Unit that actually raised moi decided to need emergency surgery. In a test of the emergency surgery system in the coastal backwaters of her slice of paradise, she encountered the requisite number of idiots at the local beach bum hospital over the weekend. So, in a way, Monday was her salvation, as it brought an influx of actual medical practitioners leaking grains of sand onto the spit-shined checkerboard hallowed hospital halls.
I was a tad bit worried when I looked up her surgeon's credentials to find that he also enjoyed the practice of ophthalmology.
I've not seen her in decades but every description begins with her diminutive stature. She has everyone and everyone's brother worried about her weight -- no busty diva, she. I want to scream sometimes.
Oh, about what? I need to particularize my need?
I want to scream at the "but she's so tiny," "she can't take it, she has no... reserves!"
Puh-leeze. This is a woman who was a fierce ballerina. I watched her employ many tricks of the dancing trade as she guarded her lithe status through the years -- as if it mattered once she was no longer expected to enter rooms via a grand jeté. She is not anorexic in the strict definition of the malady. Nor is she an alcoholic, nor does she abuse prescription drugs, in spite of a lifelong celebration of Happy Hours and a honking bottle of bazillions of phenobarbital kept in the last drawer of her dressing table.
Anyway, she survived the weekend, and made it through a scary surgery with style. And got -- with us -- to Tuesday! Yay, Mom! Point your toes and twirl, twirl, twirl!
Equally wonderful about this day? Grader Boob gets his first doses of chemotherapy! His story has become so sad, beset with that ogre of physical pain and the great deceivers of the mind that pain welcomes. If you're a Dedicated Reader, you've seen me act out that drama, o'er and o'er. Therefore, rejoice in Tuesday, for shrinking those tumors will result in less pain, and less pain will allow sleep, and sleep will further decimate the pain cycle.
All together now: "Shrink, tumors, shrink! Shrink, tumors, shrink! Shrink, tumors, shrink!" I have an accompanying tune in mind, but don't want to limit your creativity as you dance your way through this Tuesday, chanting, cavorting, and casting Grader Boob tumor cells into Tumor Cell Inferno.
Use any musical genre that works. Though I have to admit that "country/western" somehow doesn't fly. Feel free to prove me wrong. Something in a Texas Two-Step, maybe? Just be stylish. This is my brother we are talking about.
He's simply riddled with cancer, the reprobate. His new oncologist, who seems a very good dood, is starting the meds today whether he is admitted to the clinical trial or not. And no, I am not stupid. Prevailing winds, insight, what is not said -- I'm on it.
Given that it's been over 6 weeks since the official diagnosis, it is fair to say that the new oncologist's very life may have hinged on that decision, as I was gathering weaponry to bring down on his toupéed head if something were not done this week.
Would I kill to improve Grader Boob's Quality of Life? Let me see. Hmm. Yes, of course I would.
Wouldn't you? If I were willing to personally extrajudicially execute Pinochet, Jesse Helms, and various other errors, an attempt on the life of someone impeding the life of Grader Boob is one of those famed "slam dunk" decisions. The weird problem with my Kill List, and this has been the case since roughly the 1970s, is that once penciled in for an extrajudicial execution, my Listees just... drop dead. Or are taken out in the wrong fashion, a tragedy equal to the horror of their continued existence. If you have any insight into how I might stem the tide of these unworthy deaths and promote the karma-cleansing of my efficient Kill List, the comment section is all yours.
If you're lathered in a cold sweat and thinking of calling the Interwebs Keystone Kops, relax. I was voted the Family Member Least Likely To Commit Murder.
So, it is Tuesday. The Mother-Unit may yet gambol along the edge of her watery front yard, scotch and soda in one hand, the other arm gracefully indicating the vastness of the Atlantic. The Brother-Unit may get to drop the F-bomb on another set of undergraduates, or he may be granted furlough to gambol alongside the Mother-Unit, leaving now and then to swim out past the breakers.
Have I told you lately, Dear Readers, that I love you? Particularly You... That's right, You.
1. Earlier today, The Fredster and I were trying to enter the formidable Network Key into our wifi recovery program. Once we figured out where it was hiding, we each took turns writing it down. Why? Because he had a go at it and failed and the yelling began. I hate the yelling. So I jotted it down and quietly gave it a go myself. Soon enough, I was screeching. Then began The Great Discussion of the "O" versus the "0." At that point, we were on the phone with India. India was no wiser on the issue but stayed on the phone with us for half an hour. As I got ready to discard the 3rd-notice envelope and the dirty napkin we'd used for our number jotting, I noted discrepancies. He had an "F" where I had a "4." I had a "P" where he had a "5." Did I mention that I have glaucoma and cataracts? So I put on a third pair of glasses and rechecked the Router-Lord-of-the-Universe Thingy. First, I solved the O/0 problem. That helped a lot right there. Then I replaced the F and the P. Sneeked past the internet-deprived Fred who was beginning to have withdrawal symptoms. And voilà: Take that, India. Fred was happy, all was well.
2. So I got online to check with UPS tracking on a package that should have been delivered Wednesday.
It appeared to have been sucked into a vortex between two tiny towns about 10 miles apart. So I had a helpful online chat with a UPS representative. She solved the problem by referring me back to the sender, Best Buy, which made no sense, so I promptly did it. Best Buy initiated an inquiry that will take 3-8 days. "Okie-dokie, then. Uff da to ya!" said I, in my best Fargo. Then I filed a report online with UPS. I am happy to report that all of this consumer proactivism has had the following result: the UPS online tracking site now reads. "Your package has experienced an exception."
3. Earlier this week, my half-sister notified me, via the much hated Facebook, that my mother-unit had an appointment with a neurologist to be tested for Alzheimer's. Ever the polite one, I inquired today as to the outcome. I have a weird fear of Alzheimer's as it was the basic cause of death for both my step-grandmother and my stepfather, and my stepmother is showing ominous signs.
I'll give you a minute.
[toe tap, toe tap, toe tap]
Got it?
Water has been thicker than blood for most of my life, and I still have to research basic kinship terms. "Nephew, cousin, uncle," and then the linguistic peripherals, "thrice-removed, demi-, half-, step, second, great, long lost..." and the ultra-confusing "in-law, partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, old family friend [wink::wink]."
Much easier to remember? Friend / Not-Friend. Water? It quenches thirst like nobody's business and is the most powerful force in the world.
Anyway, the upshot is that Mother never made it to the neurologist. As she was getting ready, her implanted, top-of-the-line defibrillator started going off. And off. And off.
And by "as she was getting ready," this incredible half-sister further clarified the ever-shifting maternal apocrypha this way: she meant that the sweet mother-unit was in the bath tub. Or shower.
Now, these good kin live in a small town, where, apparently, a favored pastime is listening to emergency scanners -- and my half-sister began getting phone calls at her work place before the ambulance even arrived at our Mother's home, site of this most terrible technological attack..They got her to the hospital, where they repositioned the leads... and gave her some pills to keep the defibrillator from working. She is okay, but barely.
At a loss for words, I said The Standard, trained in it by this somewhat overwhelming sibling.
Bless her heart. I'll pray for her.
And then, a few hours later, I started laughing.
Buddy, the Outrageously Large Baby Maine Coon cat, chewed through the wiring of my brand new heating pad, and for dessert, demolished the Wii Remote. I had planned to reduce the day's stress with a hot game of tennis doubles for bedridden gimps.
please excuse any typos -- and let's pretend than any spelling error i might make is due to a typo and not ignorance! -- as my vision is really, really weird right now.
monday's surgery went much better than i expected. my go-to-guy doctor paved the way admirably, as i should have known he would. they told me, "he really cares about you... we don't get that very often from PCPs." brought me to tears. i care about him, too.
the nurse who was with me pre-op? her sister has CRPS! no, i am not rejoicing that her poor sister is suffering, but i was wonderfully relieved at not having to explain what CRPS is, and so on and so forth. and when the anesthesiologist, freaking out at the sight of my legs, began demanding TED hose and such, she politely shut him down while i was still getting a whiny "n-n-n-n-n-oooooo" out of my mouth.
she had the wonderful idea that they wait and do any repositioning or whatever until after i was unconscious.
truly, the traumatized person in the whole affair was the poor anesthesiologist -- i felt for the poor fellow but it took him no time at all to adjust once he had the necessary information and was from then on a prince! a peach! a pear!
anyway, i can see very well in the distance with my right eye, but everything within 4 feet is a blur. my left eye remains legally blind, near, far, and in-between. i have six drops with 16 different delivery times, eye patchs, wrap around sunglasses, and several pairs of old glasses with lenses poked out, and most of the time just want to keep both eyes closed.
my pressures thus far have been acceptable, unexpectedly accepable! she told me to be ready for emergency surgery should the pressure spike, but thus far this eye has been toeing the line as instructed. i speak to it in a firm voice, and deviations from the plan are not to be tolerated.
the next surgery will be the 26th, followed by pressure checks (and navigating the world's traffic -- all together now: "Poor Fred!"
CRPS has, of course, gone on a rampage. for some reason, it's decided my left side will be ice cold and my right hot enough to fry the proverbial egg. spasms galore. my meds are very messed up, as i am on a jacked up dose of steroids, and a higher dose of fentanyl. the ankle that felt pretty much "healed" is barking loudly as well as an area high on the right femur. and, just for giggles, the hardware in my right elbow seems to be slipping. i know. it can't really do that, can it?
my hair is going in directions i've never imagined, pulled, pushed, smashed by glasses and elastics and cords and bed-head. i scared myself when i glanced in the mirror this morning.
in cat news -- buddy thinks all of this eye paraphernalia is meant for him, and he is very close to clawing my operated eye out in an effort to get himself the eye patch. the elastic is too much for his little entitled soul to withstand. dobby is frightened by all of it but intrigued by the smell of the drops, the "eye bag" (a lovely bright purple plastic thing, made in china), and my many different ocular incarnations. i do a passable pirate just for him, full of args and ahoys and mateys. the headline feline news, though? ms. marmy fluffy butt decided, i guess, that i needed her! after about a solid year of being on her shyte list, she comes to me now quite often, for loving and *ack*-*ack* solicitous inquiries. it has cheered me immensely. i don't have to explain myself to these three. they are sort of like... youse guys. out there.
well, that's not true. the feline triumvirate DOES demand explanations, prompt ones, too, and delivered in an acceptable patois of cat and the queen's english, with the correct *ack*-*ack* cadence when addressing the queen of queens, the Marmy. dobby requires several iterations of "good boy" to be worked seamlessly into any conversation, but buddy the incredibly large maine coon "kitten" can get by for hours with a wink and an index finger wisely set aside the nose. he's strangely subtle, that one. should you fail, though, to uphold your end of the subtle interlocutory exchange? buddy will punish you by finding a way to sit on your face.
not always the greatest configuration after eye surgeries.
fevers are within normal fever limits, so i've not had to call about that. but there are now chills, so i am trying to be wise. sagacious. smart. savvy. don't tell anyone but there is building pressure and pain in the RIGHT shoulder, as well as an increase in pressure (but not pain) in the left. the left "former" shoulder. (i actually hit 101.8 and stared, giggling, at the instruction sheet carefully setting the limit for a call to the ophthalmologist at 100. chortle! as there is no pus streaming from mine blessdèd eyeballs, but there is audible CRUNCHING in each shoulder and an ungodly, unholy amount of pain in my right hip, i'm gonna go rogue and say... it's not the eye!)
that reminds me -- another blessing from monday. they understood how to treat my left side, as in, not to hyperextend that arm, since it has no "girding." in fact, they braced it brilliantly, and i need to pay attention to how they did it and copy it here at home, as that's one of my worst sins -- extending that arm.
just on the basis of my high steroid dose, traffic duty, little sleep, and his ever ready presence with coffee and pizza (well... he does what he does best, y'know? he's a blessing, he is):
all together now -- "fred is a saint!"
on the very, very down side, i finally clicked on facebook -- I DESPISE FACEBOOK -- only to find a days old message relating that my mom FELL in the nursing home, breaking her leg in three different spots, requiring surgery and pinning. she is doubtless frustrated and depressed, frightened and weary. i wish i could be there, with my natural charm and vivacious wit. i used to be pretty darned good at taking care of people and i would love to take care of her.
instead, i will wash the eyedrops out of my eyes with natural tears.
Ah, so you've taken to searching me out all over social media. And following other people in cars. How... rude. Ah, but when it comes to rudeness, I have no room to talk. But then, this is my blog, a place protected by various things, including copyright law. Reproductions are frowned upon. Big old freaking frowns, too.
But then, I do have manners.
I wasn't raised in no dang barn.
Enjoy yourselves, make yourselves at home. We've a whole empty outbuilding that can be fixed up for you, your children, your pets, lovers, friends, fiancés, and any stray relatives who'd love to tag along. It is just beyond the Animal Husbandry Barn Yard, at a suitable distance from the Insemination Gazebo, and far enough from our wing of Marlinspike Hall that you shall not feel spied upon.
One thing you should remember about this blog: it's my place to vent, say what I please (but not necessarily what I believe), and to people who are my friends, be they of the Hergé sort or just soft-spoken Buddhist anarchists who have decided to live in a haus-boat that continually circles the moat. It's also a place for people with CRPS to share research and clinical trial news, and a place for them to relax, to go aside and rest awhile.
I say some mean things here about you, about Mom. I say a lot of nice things about you here, too, and about Mom. I say them as I say them. I say them as I feel them. I say them based on things I know and you don't. Sometimes I base them on misinformation that is fed to me.
I would appreciate being able to telephone the Mother-Unit without interference or the necessity of aid from sweet third parties. But it's no big deal. I truly hate the telephone. There's not much to say on my end. One day is remarkably like the other. There's no point to your interference. Who and what you are is known. Most of what you've done is known, or guessed at. And no one much cares.
In a random poll taken in the neighborhood, a hefty 99% of the polled say it's time for you to grow up. So you go do that.
I'll stay here and make sure the ticking in your mattresses is the absolute freshest, that there are daisies, lilies, and tulips (for Lale) in cut-glass vases throughout the charmingly converted building come to be known simply as "The Turkey Baster." We need to rename it but that kind of thing just is not a priority. If I have time to do some growing up, it will have to be between re-sodding our Wimbledon Replica Courts and baking a thousand caramelized onion with tomato jam tarts for the local Woe-Is-Me Chapter Fundraiser.
Be careful as you stroll about elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle. Tante Louise, the local constabulary and gossip comptroller, patrols various posts and hallways. She doesn't take kindly to litter, prevarication, violence, manipulation, or vandalism (which she defines in a most... original way).
Also take care that you do not in any way meander off the beaten path into the domains of my Brother-Units. I consider myself their Gate Keeper, and you know what that means. Anything goes and no one crosses that line.
There's no reason on God's formerly green Earth that relationships cannot be mended. There is one criterion that can't be avoided, however, and, well, I would hope that is obvious by now.
You are worthy people, children of the aforementioned God, guests on His formerly green Earth. Be generous. Be real. Be compassionate.
I will try to learn to do the same. My learning curve is not the greatest. But I won't give up trying. I promise. So let's not give up on one another, no matter how angry we feel.
You're surrounded by some good people -- Betty, Mac, Benita -- and you've access to many more. Listen to older, wiser voices. There is nothing new under the sun. This drama? It's happening all over God's formerly green Earth, and began with the First Family -- by which I do not mean President Obama and his good kin.
This above all else, my half-siblings: the next generation, those kids you are rasining? Spare them the mistakes that we have made. Expose them to new things, allow them to explore, allow them to disagree, give them some space. Get them help if they need it. Love them in such a way that they don't grow up confused about love or where to find it. Let them know that their hearts are safe in your homes, and that's where their hearts will be. You've got real treasures in your care -- they are wonderful children!
I received this comment after my last scintillating post of a copy of one of those LOLcat thingies that cat fanatics laugh at every day:
T said...
Been a week now, that's not like you. I hope you are ok.
TAM
Well, okay, damn it, TAM, if you're gonna get all pushy and rude about it, and can't get by for a week on a hard-fought, drainingly intellectual (and creative!) cat cartoon, well, then, geez! I guess I'd better write something.
You want the truth or the truth?
I mean, I could say it's all been due to March Madness and the fact that my Gothic Wonderland DukieDom was demolished in the Elite Eight, and I'm in mourning. La Bonne et Belle Bianca ripped off all her clothes -- which took a while -- who knew the secret of her amazing assortment of undergarments, that we will blithely name "shapewear"? We caught her, reluctantly, before she made it over the drawbridge, but Fred is still putting drops in his eyes.
Speaking of Fred, he has the world's weirdest ear infection going. In both ears, though he only perceives it in one. Talking to him is the tops of hoots: he offers you one side of his head, then the other, then proceeds to slowly rotate back and forth, listening for the correct pitch of your blip on his radar. He has no pain, has had no fever or dizziness, and likely would not have noticed a thing were it not for the echos and distortion to his hearing. But get this! He went to the doctor, TWICE. Of course, TWICE, he saw, not the doctor, but the PA, who was rude enough to check his prostate, as well. The ear bone is connected to the prostate bone -- new-fangled medicine. So I've been thankful to the ear issue as it lead to a physical and the sudden appearance of a salad with his every meal -- we both skip breakfast, as I can't do salad for breakfast. Fruit salad, yes -- staying ahead of TAM, the smarty-panted.
Which leads, quite naturally, to a discussion of why we skip breakfast. Neither of us are able to sleep. For a few nights, it was the height of ridicule, both of us in bed, awake for worry about the other. That accomplished nothing but resentment in the blaring, glaring light of day. I've gone over to the dark side, to Fred's "schedule." I sleep when I can, and, basically, that means either whole days at a stretch, or not at all.
Many nights of biting through my lower lip, a worried feline Dobby gently putting his paw on my former shoulder, trying in his elven way to bewitch me into sleep, so that he can then curl up on my head, tail forming an Amish beard under my chin.
I have been writing, but mostly, sorry, poetry. And sorry poetry it is, too!
I even hosted a poetry contest which I then ruined by being myself. My contestants, having been "judged" by unnecessarily long and pretentious comments, are almost universally and uniformly pissed off. Add to that the warm-hearted comments I keep getting after I win any sort of "prize" or recognition, and I feel a bit like a motherless child. They keep saying, "There is no audience for you here."
Well, the motherless child reference is just overwhelmingly rich, as my Dearest of Readers already know,. and though Freud and Jung both suck, they'd easily earn their weight in cocaine and great mandalas after just 30 seconds of my whine. "She's mourning ze mama," they'd say. Well, she ain't dead yet, my Monty Python side mutters. I feel no remorse for calling in the troops of Adult Protective Services and only hope that they are true to their word -- which would be a first among the human species I've encountered in the last few weeks or so. I lay in my bed, moaning, finding no position free of pain, and am psychically connected to her decrepit frame and mind, so many hundreds of miles away, and sometimes I do not reach for my pain medications out of a demented certainty that her pain is untreated, her confusion enhanced by the hurt.
They are not cruel people, her children, and caring for her can be no easy task. But it's one that needs doing, and must be done well.
I also hope they've not robbed her blind. I also hope that... well, you know what one hopes.
My blood work shows something that looks like hemolytic anemia, so I'm not bleeding out, though I am still bleeding. Sumpthing, sumpthing to do with bone marrow that would like a vacation, please. Probably from the onslaught of five years of heavy-duty antibiotics. No bitterness here, no ma'am, no sir! The worst part is that exertion, sometimes in the form of three to ten steps, can bring on a dip into cold-lipped darkness. So I use a trick that I knew would one day come in handy.
Many, many years ago, in the days of living with the Self-Proclaimed Greatest of American Authors (was I ever that stupid? Yes, I was! And, oddly, regret it less and less. Honor the ways in which you have survived, no matter how self-demeaning and weird!) -- Anywho, back to my fairy tale:
Many, many years ago, in the days of living with the Self-Proclaimed Greatest of American Authors, he and I spent an entertaining couple of summer months as Drum and Bugle Corps groupies for the Santa Clara Vanguard, a six-time Drum Corps International Champion. Self-Proclaimed Greatest had once been the freaking drum major for UCLA, one of those odd quirks that make up attractions, as I would often ask for some strange bedroom reinactments.
His younger brother played horn, blew trumpet, for The Vanguard, and a more dedicated horn blower there has never been. "Squealing" was the height of heights for these brothers. Squealing consisted of Baby Brother standing at the end of his bed, which, thank the gods, had a low footboard, his back to it. Throw pillows were scattered about his feet, "just in case." To squeal is not just to blow for all you are worth, for the entirety -- and then more -- of your lung capacity. No, you show control as well, and as you wail, your back naturally arches, the horn turns heavenward, and you traverse the tones, you trip the light...
Well, yeah, you actually do trip the light. You do it, or they did, to the point of passing out. Done correctly, this musical exercise leaves you plopped on the end of the bed, drooling, and much as Heston dared, still gripping the horn which might have to be pried from a dead, cold hand.
Then, rapidly coming to, you high five your sibling and yell out things like "the coolest" or "awesome blow, dude."
So as I maneuver around the bedroom, not seeing the point of the transfer to wheelchair and its so forths and so ons, when all I want is something out of the closest of the twelve walk-in closets of our well-appointed digs here in The Manor, I sidle around the contours of the bed, looking for all the world like Eliot's crab, ragged and scuttling. It's as close to a trumpet squeal as I'm gonna get, and twice has actually worked as planned. Things began to go cold and dark, and all I needed to do was go backward. Once, actually, it probably even looked like a casual, planned sit. Except for the ensuing collapse of the upper body onto the mattress. Other times, I've parked the wretched chair in the mid-space of my route, and usually made it to the seat in time. A few times, I've hit the wall, instead, which has a subtle sobering effect, and causes a bit of internal panic, but, as yet, no need for repainting.
Unfortunately, nonsense such as this has lead to more medical appointments, something I had wanted to swear off, as this year is dedicated to staying away from the beastly medic types, unless there is a fire to be put out. I suppose go-to-guy sees this as a stray spark in a virgin forest afflicted by dangerous drought, an over eager aridity. I could burn the world down.
So tomorrow, and then again on Thursday, we waste our days with figuring all this out and spraying down the old trees, wetting the underbrush, digging fire lines, breaks to the spread of my ember's arson.
In short, I'm tired. One trip last week, to sweet Justine, the world's best vampire, wore me out. Writing bad poetry, insulting contestants who willingly entered into a sacred agreement with me to honor their work, trying to keep the Domestic Staff from going wild with equanox joy, and keeping the naked Bianca contained on this side of the moat, all of it has taken a ridiculous toll. The Mother-Unit's troubles, Fred's poor muddled ears, and the fact that I've demanded coffee in bed the past four days -- all this makes me blue.
Three fingernails are trying to come off and I'm too much of a baby to yank 'em. My song of experience? There was a fourth, and I yanked it. A terrible, sad new use for the profundity of "Never again!"
Oh, I forgot one of my better excuses! My eyes. I'm not blind, I just can't see. I've even gone faithful to the regimen of glaucoma drops but isn't it the nature of need-driven faith to just gnaw your ass off?
We'll call this a Post of Obligation and hope that you all can find enough in the archives to stay amused. There's no cure yet for CRPS, or I'd have told you, and the gated community of biofilm osteomyelitis infection has only added a chain link lock to the wrought iron enclosures. Jose Ochoa is still a turd, as is Scott Reuben, and Lindsey Baum is still gone.
I don't know that I've ever tried to write with such a headache before. This may prove interesting. It's not awful, just awfully concentrated behind my left eye, so I'm squinting, and being already afflicted with interesting vision -- well, writing just got more interesting! [Note to self: Spare your readers. Do NOT revise post by substituting accurate adjectives for "interesting." Sometimes "vague," like "fun," is good.]
My mother and I share a birthday, and I am glad to say that we did it again, day before yesterday. Especially glad am I because she was, and may still be, in her small town ICU. I spoke with her, not because I dutifully or joyfully hit ICU speed-dial so that we could gush about getting older together, right on cue, no. Rather, my bone-weary half-sister Lale, a true force of nature, pulled one of those tricks.
You know what I'm talking about. I mean, how many years did you fall for the old "pull my finger" gag? Admittedly, I am probably the world's most gullible person, still -- I should have had my guard up. But Lale feels strongly that she knows what is right and then, well, there is that "force of nature" thing going on.
So I'm semi-awake and chatting with her, getting the update on the Mother-Unit's health when Lale says, in one breath, words-in-a-taut-string: "Ask her yourself, here she is..." and BAM! There she is, mother of moi, me, her 29th birthday present, languishing on the other end of what has to be one of those genius phones.
My phone? Bottom of the bottom of the barrel. I have to push certain plastic parts in different directions to be able to half-hear the person or (most often) the automated bill collector on the other end.
But we had a nice chat, we did. She's cogent -- Lale told me that she remembered her husband was dead (it's been a few years) after only one reminder -- and that's an accomplishment for any hospitalized person these days, much less an elderly woman in an intensive care unit. I should remember to tell her, and Lale, that I promptly lose my mind whenever the elevator doors even open onto a critical care unit. I have what is known as "ICU psychosis," engendered, I'm told, by the constant noise and light, drugs, etc. But I know the underlying truth: It's just like giving a Permanent Hall Pass to my natural craziness. I see and hear things, experience the darnedest adventures -- last time, I spent an entire day attempting to help three Archangels successfully blow my head off with legally obtained and properly permitted shotguns. They were lousy shots. Apparently, I kept taking one arm to use for pointing to my big bedhead head, which I kept raising off the pillow -- trying to make the target easier to hit. The good thing is that my nurses and doctors, despite repeated interrogations ["What the hell are you trying to do?"], never did understand that I was attempting to assist in my own assassination by God's Blessèd Assassins. Good thing, too, that I never pointed them out -- all three Archangels were slumped in ratty old outdoor aluminum-framed chairs -- the old-fashioned woven plastic kind, plaid. One of them being terribly overweight, his butt was hanging a bare half-inch from the ICU floor. Off to the side was an equally old tiny television set, perched on a TV dinner tray table, rabbit ears accented with twists of foil. The three holy ones would watch a few minutes of infomercials, then load up and fire off shots at my head, then curse when their projectiles just busted out another window, or ripped through a beeping IVAC pump.
Other ICU psychosis experiences? Most involved schemes of escaping the unit. I once even called my Brother-Unit Grader Boob, thanking him profusely for having landed a helicopter on the hospital roof, then belaying down with a team of White Hat Black Ops to rescue me from my false imprisonment beneath a respirator. It still astonishes me that anyone gave me a phone to make the call. Apparently -- they had just extubated me -- my babbling about my brother was construed as a need to call and express my love for him, and my gratitude for having survived near death. Instead, I regaled him with praise, saying "I didn't even know you knew how to fly a helicopter!"
So my mother did great -- she was, in fact, sitting there eating a slice of birthday cake that the food service folk had specially prepared for her. If they can stabilize her blood pressure, I think she's headed home soon.
But you gotta be on your toes around that Lale girl... She thinks my phone phobia is a made-up thing, something I invented to avoid talking to that wing of my Fucked-Up Family. But no, it's real as can be. I dislike phones, always have. But that dislike has blossomed into what I think is a real technical phobia -- I mean, I probably need psychiatric treatment to get over it. It's not so bad when there is business to conduct. I could, at this point, yell at Walmart pharmacists all the livelong day. But chat with a person about... life... and "stuff"? God help me, I start hoping to see my slouching, crabby Archangels taking aim.
No offense to TW, whom I've only spoken with a couple of times, and each time hung up with a smile from ear-to-ear, but the best phone person, for me, is the oft-mentioned Grader Boob. I think because we both profess to be teachers and promptly enter the Twilight Zone of Student Stories. It takes about 30 seconds for the both of us to be reduced to tears from laughter. Both TW and Grader Boob, however, can also piss moi off to no end with what must be a genetic tendency to refuse to directly answer Important Questions. You know, of the "How Are You, **Really**?" sort. These tend to be asked after I've been informed that they've taken dives down stairwells or slipped on ice and broken their beloved shoulders, or lost a long loved love. Then, I guess I become, once again, that annoying chubby little sister who just wouldn't get it, anyway.
Harrumph.
So, yeah, I had a birthday! It was great. Coffee in bed, and not just once, but twice. Music of all sorts. And a card from the ambulance-chaser lawyer who got me a check for $1,000 15 years ago after I was injured in a car accident. He always encloses a very useful calendar, too, that we promptly affix to the fridge.
For my birthday repast, I insisted on Indian take-out. My beloved favorite restaurant had moved to a location so far away I had not the heart to make Fred and Ruby drive the distance, so intense research turned up a very funky nearby place that provided us with beaucoup, beaucoup delicious fare.
Normally, I ask for cherry pie in lieu of birthday cake. The restaurant menu, however, lured me toward one of their two desserts, a sort of pudding that was pure heaven, while Fred went into ecstacy with pistachio ice cream.
Then we lay in bed and moaned.
I had hoped to also watch a movie, but alas, Xfinity On Demand tricked me, and the free flicks I had picked out turned out not to be so free. Yes, I do refuse to pay... even on my birthday. I think that, too, is genetic.
But I had fun watching "Chopped" with Fred. He's a hoot. And a very good cook. Bless his bones forever, though, he got upset over an idea I've long been considering. I thought it would be great fun for all the people who do the cooking for Fred's Wednesday Night Suppers (you know, with the Militant Lesbian Existentialist Feminists) to have a "Chopped" competition. We could choose someone to put together "mystery baskets" of odd ingredients and see what resulted. But sweet Fred actually got teary-eyed over the potential hurt involved in "competition." My heart swells, right now, just remembering: "I don't like competitions. People get hurt."
Okay, honestly?
I felt like saying, "Oh, come on, we're talking more like a theme party than a serious competition... and the Mystery Baskets can be engineered as more 'easy as pie' than real gourmet challenges!"
But then I saw that he actually had tears in his eyes. No shit.
Fred's waters run deep.
I had forgotten that he won't even play board games, or cards. That he eschews most sporting events due to their tendency to insist on scoring, and winners, and losers.
I love Fred. What he stands for. Still... c'mon. Anyone wanna do a Chopped Challenge with me?
So... that was my birthday. It was fun, my mother didn't die, the food was fantastic, and the company, perfect. La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, however, ate THREE entrée-sized servings of saag paneer and was running back-and-forth most of the night, so I ended up awake the whole night-after-the-birthday.
Which takes this narrative quite easily into yesterday, when I was exhausted and highly feverish, rather peevish, and in a shitload of pain. Some people with chronic pain believe that if you have a good day, the following few days will be spent "paying the piper."
I am one of them!
I am still paying that talented piper today, but at least my mood is good, Fred seems to have recovered from the suggestion of the cooking contest, and Bianca is no longer racing for the loo, screaming insults against the Indian sub-continent. [Oh, she and Sven are on the outs. Kind of a good thing, really, because we'd have had to order four times as much food. I think they'll get back together. I don't believe in "soul mates" nonsense, but those two are cut from the same cloth. Now, Cabana Boy has been nosing around, and that may spice things up a bit -- but, God, I hope not. It may well be that the Adult Faction of Marlinspike Hall is ready for an extended period of Bland Times.]
The Walmart Wars continue, but now are in the hands of three investigatory bodies -- one regional Board of Pharmacy, the Tête de Hergé Department of Health & Human Services Office of Inspector General's Office of Investigations... and my insurance company.
But there's always a fuck-up, correct? I emailed my Go-To-Guy and his Super Nurse on the advice of the insurance company, asking that they call the company directly to get the prior authorization thang taken care of, and submitting directly to them a new prescription.
Oh, dear Lord. Wham, bam, I got three responses within an hour from my intrepid medical team. Their reaction was pure outrage that Walmart had claimed their office had failed to respond to two requests for prior-authorization schtuff, and they were going to, by Jove, set those people straight.
I felt my brain explode a little. I did not respond, for two reasons. One, it was then late Friday afternoon, and nothing goes right in the "business" world on late Friday afternoons. Two, explaining in detail the steps I had already taken to exact justice for us all would only have made the water so very, very muddy. There is also a three. Three, my dear doc is a devout person, and I hate to put something annoying on his mind at the approach of Sabbath.
But please, please, hope along with me that they did NOT call this particular Walmart Pharmacy, now under investigation, and try to submit ANOTHER Rx.
In other news: I was thrilled at Panetta's announcement of the reversal of policy regarding women in combat. Somehow, I kind of doubt that you know why I was thrilled. But in proof certain that Fred and I are, like Sven and The Castafiore, cut from the same cloth, we shared the rationale of gladness. If Hawks, usually of the TeaBagger sort, truly are outraged at the thought of Cindy Lou in a body bag, maybe they will temper their Hawkishness. Maybe, probably at a subconscious level, they will avoid armed conflict and war, the better to avoid Cindy Lou sloshing around in black plastic and a pine coffin.
Yes, we all know women have been involved in "front line" combat for a long while now, particularly since the "front line" so rarely exists any longer. Cindy Lou driving a Maintenance Vehicle in support of a fighting outfit is at much on the "front line" as the men she is following. And, as Rep. Tammy Duckworth hilariously pointed out, she did not lose her legs in "a bar fight."
There is another side to me (at least one other!), though, that also concurs with Duckworth and other career military women -- their career advancement has been diverted and denied because of a failure to recognize their actual battle experience, or through denying them that "opportunity." Honestly, we are talking less about hand-to-hand, muzzle-to-muzzle nonsense than we are more strategic jobs. And man, do I wish the machomacho men spewing idiocies would calm down and read the provision more closely -- the physical requirements for any combat positions are not going to be changed. Anorexic and weak-kneed Cindy Lous are not going to attempt lugging Big Bad Linebacker Lou to safety after he's been hit by enemy fire.
I'd have to go check my facts and I don't feel like it at the moment (ahh, the integrity of my blogging), but I believe the Israelis chose to remove women from front line positions after a study revealed that male soldiers' attention became all addlepated when faced with decisions such as choosing which fallen soldier to attend to first, as a medic, when one was a woman, and the other a man. Yeah, well. There are many fogs to war.
What else? Oh, I will miss Tom Harkin. He did good work.
Oh, and I like the bangs.
I disagree with the ruling about Presidential appointments during congressional recesses. Did I hear it would be appealed to the good brothers and sisters of the Supreme Court?
I thought Hillary was masterful in her hearings. I still am using my "Hillary for President" water bottle but doubt it will still be in use by 2016. I also found think we will never know the truth of what happened that day in Benghazi, not if Hillary can help it.
The thought of the many Syrian refugees makes me want to cry, a not very useful response. And my brain is befuddled by Egypt.
I tepidly applaud Iraq's parliament in trying to prevent Prime Minister Nuri Kamal al-Maliki from another term.
Okay, the truth is... I am trying to fake myself out. Do a sleight of hand against my own hands. What is really weighing on my mind... drones. Drones and Obama's hit list. I have a hit list of my own. It started as a joke. Then one day, I thought about it. Given the chance, the right circumstance, yes, I would pull the trigger to take out one of those who made my list. And I'd accept the consequences, which I imagine would occur faster than I could blink. I like, too, the idea of taking someone out without the loss of so many military pawns, foot-soldiers, kids, fighting under some ridiculous cover story. And "collateral damage" makes me weep and want to hide for shame.
Some folks need killing in the worst way.
All right, yes. I also have the vague suspicion of a suggestion of a soupçon that killing of any sort is wrong. That killing without the courtesy of a look-in-the-eye is cowardly. (Oh, scratch that last sentence. I don't believe that. I made it up. I lied.)
These are the types of issues that send me back to White's Book of Merlyn.
There are so many things about which we all think, about which we do not speak.
An amazing segue, on par, even with "anyway..."!
Cat stories, that's what we need! Here is an update and a FAIL cat video, starring The One, The Only BUDDY -- all in an effort to save this headache of a blog post!
Okay, whom shall we update first. Marmy FluffyButt? Yes. Why not? She is beginning to warm up to me again, although at the rate she's warming, I'll be stiff and cold by the time this feline decides I'm worth giving another chance. Ever since I was put in charge of treating her chronically infected and leaky eyeball, she has cast me into the outer reaches of Hell. And I don't think Marmy's Hell is the more accessible "circle" or ring. She spurns Dante. "Nine circles of suffering? For having put stinging goop into mein eyeball? The outer atomic layer of the ninth circle does not approach sufficiency of suffering, although the theme is correct, since daring to touch mein eyeball does line up well with Judecca, the hooman Alighieri's spot for flaming Iscariots..." When I heard her say *that*, well, shivers went up my spine. Her geometrical preference is less for spheres and more for one e-t-e-r-n-a-l line.
But she remains sweet, in spite of the damning obsession 'n all. Especially after the sun goes down, at which time she has had a good 12-hour nap, and greets her humans as if they were long lost pals. She will let me rub her beautiful head, scratch her silky chin, and lightly pull on her magnificent poofy tail. She thinks Fred, Bianca, Sven, the Cabana Boy, and all of the Manor Domestic Staff are the greatest. Whether she will ever cuddle next to moi again is doubtful. {sniff}
Dobby! He continues to bring a smile to the face of all he meets and greets. If he failes to meet and greet you, it is because, being a very small animal, he is frightened and is hiding in my closet, where stress is making him shed profusely on all of my clean clothes.
We've always been able to hear The Dobster approach, even from as far away as the Over-Sized Pink Opalescent Gala Ballroom. His toenails made a pleasant tap-tap-tap and he could never figure out his continual failure in sneakiness. Suddenly, one day last week, I watched him pass by me and realized that I heard... nothing. Thinking that the Good Lord had decided I needed deafness added to the Affliction List, I consulted with Fred (whom I could hear, O Hosanna!) and he could no longer hear the tap-tap-tap of Dobby, either.
Putting the little guy under surveillance, it turned out that he is assiduously pulling off the ends of his not so talon-like talons.
All the better to tippy-toe behind his frequent attacker, the huge Buddy Boy, and enjoy the thrills of jumping on his head for a change. Last night, I even saw him tear by the overgrown kitten, who, hearing not a sound, never even knew he'd been bested.
Dobby continues his late night howling, and we've narrowed the causes down to two: a continual mourning for our beloved Sammy and/or an annoying demand that we break out the laser dot toy.
Both are a bit distressing. It's time for him to simply think fondly on Sweet Sammy, and when we do break out the laser dot toy, he no longer wishes to chase it, but settles down in an old-fart-in-a-raggedy-barcalounger pose so as to better enjoy the light show. He leaves the chasing to Buddy, who is thrilled to do it and chases with abandon, albeit also with some confusion, and to Marmy, who has but one plan of attack -- to eat that damned red dot. She gulps enough air in the chase to cause hours of entertaining burping.
As for updating Buddy's growing fan base on the Maine Coon's progress? Lordy, lordy. EVERYTHING is a game. Therefore, we are often thankful to have undertaken the "soft paw" training when he was truly a baby. Otherwise, we'd have even deeper and many more scratches from all the "play."
It turns out he suffers a bit from separation anxiety. Because of his constant desire to "play," and this desire's inappropriateness around all the Haddock antique treasure in the Manor, he is restricted to our Private Quarters. Most of the time, it is Fred who takes off in Ruby, and since I'm typically ensconced in bed, he's okay -- though he does visibly perk up upon Fred's return. But should the both of us leave for a bit, we return to find the neediest cat west of the Lone Alp. It is very sweet but makes me sad that he is upset, ever. He's such a happy guy, you see.
His latest Life Adventure is, unfortunately, his first ailment. Thankfully, it is but a runny and irritated eye. I am guessing that the newly self-declawed Dobby may have whacked him in the face, though you can never rule out lightening-fast Marmy FluffyButt. In any event, Fred is gently putting medication in his eye -- and Buddy seems cognizant of this as help and not attack. As we say so often around here, and to almost anyone, cat or human: "What a good boy!"
So, let me close this potpourri of a post with a FAIL video of Buddy the Outrageously Large Kitten, and his refusal to stuff himself in a box. As the YouTube title explains, "Buddy is no Maru."
does the universe conspire? (no, i think not.)
damn. this is another of my many blog posts that is pure therapy, a poor recalcitrant woman's version of therapy -- following the one terrible rule that -- once writ -- nothing can be taken back.
i just don't *do* "universe" well. there are few who can do it well. martin luther king, jr. did it well.
my favorite? "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice." see? see? what did i tell ya? king did a good "universe." he was probably thinking, "heck yeah! you can quote me! who said it? who said it? that's right -- i said it..."
i like to think that maybe he looks around, furtively, then pumps his right arm, and cries: "SHAZAM!"
martin "captain marvel" king!
so, no, the universe does not conspire in serendipity today. rather, the arc of my emotion -- it is fiendishly inclusive. there is nothing, nada, zilch that does not relate, if that's how i want it.
it's as simple, i suppose, as "whose blog is it, anyway?" if you want it simple, you could think that.
at 11 am, i sometimes watch ER reruns. lately, they've been approaching mark greene's death, that beautiful episode in hawaii.
it's a fiction. it's a t.v. show. he gets to die as most of us would like, a dream death. i think that as i lay dying, i'm going to insert myself into that scene. wouldn't that be a gas? i'll probably be alone on some cracked and yellowed linoleum, brain dead, gifted with nary a thought!
also, i am pretty sure i'll be leaking. stinky, maybe with a joint or two having exploded. dare i dream of immolation? i am one of those who *believe* in spontaneous human combustion.
an airy room, sun, wind, ocean. a porch that wraps around. sand, herbs, a little tiny baby. all the natural forces gathered to usher him out. his death has a great soundtrack, too. YouTube is constantly putting out the fire of unauthorized vids -- disabling the audio. it's rough 'n tough, YouTube.
i rushed out and bought israel's cd, with the "somewhere" medley. a friend also gave it to me as a gift the next week. brother-unit grader boob burned me a copy for christmas. it seemed to make me come to mind.
so mark greene gets to leave on the wings of that incredible lullaby.
it's only 11:34 am, in marlinspike hall, deep, deep in the tête de hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).
yes, the archduke announced yesterday an amendment to the name of the land, this delightful country where i am so blessed to be. from now on, marlinspike hall is nestled in the tête de hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs). it has a good mouth-feel, it rolls in la bouche.
ah, so he has just seized... always a milestone, don't cha think?
elizabeth says; "maahhhk, you need a cat scan and a full workup!" i giggle.
then begin to weep again, as he says, "i don't wanna go back home. it's beautiful here, isn't it?"
yes, mark! stay there. opt for that!
then the anger rises again... i want to opt for that, dammit. and quick.
before my mother dies.
yes, before she exits, stage left. exeunt (because she shouldn't go out alone.).
do you know how much i owe my sister lale? unqualified, my sister. not half-sister. not sister-of-the-next-batch. not sister-who-blurts-out-everything. just sister.
i was thinking on that as i wept my way around the kitchen. cleaning. like a crazed woman. unfortunately, not a crazed cleaning woman... as in, someone who effectively gets the jobs done.
i smear.
rachel just lied to her dad.
"remember when i used to sing you to sleep?"
"no {all sullen-like}."
he doesn't stop, he knows better. she had a dog. there was a balloon. she had a grandmother.
"i don't remember, i don't remember any of that stuff. it's not important. it's useless boring useless crap, a dog named dudley? stop talking to me about it."
so it looks like pancreatic cancer, ain't that a bitch? i think myself so evolved, i think i know it all. i was happy to hear "pancreatitis," happy to think, well, good, now we know, now we can treat it, now she will get well.
i pushed to the back of my brain the thought, "why in the world would she have pancreatitis?"
it is NOT for sure yet. it will be for sure on wednesday. two days left to pretend. to practice saying "mother." "mom." it just sounds foreign.
now, lale. la-le. lollylolly! i can say "lale" all the livelong day!
back to smearing around the grease and dirt in the kitchen (the Medieval Kitchen, my favorite. but have you ever tried to clean a medieval kitchen? the spit alone has inspired centuries of baked on, smokey crud. mr. clean is a useless twit in our kitchens...)-- back to lale, my sister, what a neat, nifty person.
without her? i'd not be in touch with tumbleweed. i'd not even know he was alive.
without her? i'd not know, and perhaps, not care, that mother is [likely] dying.
i'd not entertain the notion of family -- beyond the beloved grader boob. this aunt, that uncle, those nieces and nephews galore.
okay, so there is some suspect parentage going on -- babies without fathers, teenagers of indeterminate mothers. who cares? at least all those people have been busy living.
i applaud them, i applaud you -- if you've been busy living.
"generosity. be generous."
those are the words mark leaves his daughter.
a brilliant legacy. it speaks to me, as i've not been generous but still have been blessed by those who -- effortlessly, it seems -- are. those who are. generous.
mother's late husband, necip -- easily the most generous man i ever met. he'd have been a great dad to have... and it thrills me, sometimes, to think of lale receiving that gift from him. he would smile to know how well she was schooled, how hugely giving is her good heart.
i promised to call again later today, as she said she was struggling "to keep [her] mind straight, in the right place."
i am going to give this sister thing a shot.
***************************************************************************************** "...comment dire autre chose, autre chose que l'ímpossibilité de dire, comme je fais ici: moi, je signe..."
HEY, WAIT! we're on the internet at almost the same time! Don't goooooooooo! I feel so close, so near! I haven't read your email, even, I am so excited that you sent it a mere 10 minutes or so, But... did you hear about the dood who killed 14 people and hurt a bunch more at a theatre where the new batman movie was débuting. [débuting? don't sound right, do it? shore as shit don't look right, neither.] now that is pure batshit.
okay. a brief pause while i read what looks to be one of your more longish emails...
i will respond by that clever technique of changing font color, and being BOLD.
On Fri, Jul 20, 2012 at 7:19 AM, Grader Boob wrote:
Howdy-- well, howdy yourself, handsome!
I know it will be hard to believe, but your package is actually rumbling your way, tightly grasped in the talons of the USPS. Should take several days to get there. ah, but the larger question? do i WANT it to get here. am i going to go batshit over it... not in the sense of the batshit shooter in the gas mask. here is a test. i do not know what state this happened in, but i am going out on a limb and guessing either florida (sorry) or texas (because texas is fucked majorly up). oops! it was colorado, and good news, the death toll has gone down. i'm not sure how that happens, but i like it. maybe they can work it down to zero. maybe it's a skill they can transfer to syria, and other places full of weapons going off willy-nilly. a 3-month old was shot. a 3-month old. yep... good morning, grader boob!
back to the package... of course, i want it. i am dreaming dreams you would not believe -- not horrid, or even, really, disturbing... but i continue to dream of dad's watch in almost all of them. he keeps handing it to me. i keep noting that it is not a rolex, that it is silver and that i love silver, that it is clunky, and then, always, i note that time ran out, that i let time run out. yeah, i'm swift that way, realizing the obvious, and doing nothing about it. i also have been thinking a lot about k... the last time i saw her (i think), she and mom and i were at the beach, i was visiting from berkeley, thinking that it mattered to tell "the folks" that i was living with jp, the cheatingest jerk ever to declare love for a girl. the night i got back, before jp even had my luggage in the bedroom, he was telling me about this waitress he had met who liked his poetry... meanwhile, back at the beach? k was the sweetest help to me. she made it almost painless and i don't remember exactly how, but she had us all cracking up. i loved her for it... and even that kind of memory-love doesn't go away. i remember wondering if she had had the chance to live with Mr. Vivacious V, The Soil Scientist, who clearly shared the cheating gene with my jp, The Writer -- maybe she'd not have married El Jerko. She deserved so much better. But then... [ARE YOU STILL THERE? I HAVEN'T HAD ANY COFFEE, AND THAT IN ITSELF IS A STORY!] according to star trek logic, she'd maybe never have met this joe person, who sounds like a neat dood. in fact, do 100 words on dood joe, right after you do a 1000 on ms. k. to my great shame, i've no interest (none, i mean NONE -- what is wrong with me?) in nephew brian... not since i found his MUG SHOT on the internet. it was the middle of the night, i was in my usual middle-of-the-night state, and i simply entered his name. this is what turned up... and about all i can say is that he IS a handsome lad:
[link to a mug shot]
Not much going on here--I'm holding "office hours" as I write, but no one seems to want to log on and chat. I think that if I held them in the evening it would work better for them, but I'd then be at the mercy of the home computer, which is currently residing at the Computer Corner undergoing repairs. What a technological world we live in. sadly, i've found it cheaper to get new laptops than to have the messed up ones repaired. of course, you probably don't spill entire cups of coffee on yours... or drop them, repeatedly, on your CRPS-afflicted foot. same foot each time, same spot each time. but maybe you have a desktop? if i spent more time out of bed, i'd go back to desktops. i'd like to see a desktop fly off my desk and onto my foot! ha! is Computer Corner reputable? do you get frequent flyer miles? i would LOVE to have a top of the line, fast, readable (remember, i have the family glaucoma gift, plus cataracts, and the poundage gift from 15 years of steroids... also i don't have much of a chin and my nose is an obvious punk, and who the hell thought giving me rough, curly, uninteresting hair?) 'puter. make it a laptop that does not heat up, weighs less than a pound and doesn't collapse under the stress of piles of cat hair.
Speaking of technology, has it figured out a way to handle your new strain of bacteria? Or even the old one? Hope the regimen you're on has some positive results. Do they tinker with the various percentages of the components in the cocktails they give you? the last question is easiest. one of the reasons we practically LIVE at that damned office is so that they can measure the levels of each antibiotic, as well as the many pretty effing serious side effects they cause. so they sometimes tinker with dosages every 7 days. a good joke? in the hospital, i keep fighting with nurses/doctors/janitors that i am NOT allergic to daptomycin, despite it perpetually appearing on my computerized (they're everywhere!) allergy list. last week, dr. b -- whom you would love -- explained to me that yes, i have one of the life-threatening side effects, usually starting in the second week of administration, but that he doesn't care because he thinks i can stand it and it is the drug HE WANTS. okay, so, as for p. acnes, no one has told me whether they've even cultured for it again -- not, i am guessing, since the swabs that grew came from "deep tissue" in my arm. my p. acnes antennna are still going off, based on fever and increasing, instead of decreasing, pain in that former shoulder area. that's the one he is throwing daptomycin at... if i may offer advice to you and anyone of your acquaintance who end up getting weeks of i.v. antibiotics: yogurt, plain, not mixed with fruit, and ridiculously expensive little pills of probiotics.
And in answer to your question, Mom is, indeed, staying at the beach house. It's the place that has the most meaning for her, and it has ties back to Mimi.good for her, god bless her. does she need help, have help? since the fix-it folks attended the memorial, i am guessing she's got that covered. oh, god bless her. waking up to the sound of surf. walking the beach. god bless her. does she think often of mimi? all i remember were mimi's final years, so full of alzheimer's confusion. were you there the day we found her in the closet? i *believe* she wanted to leave, and had decided to get her coat, and that's about as far as she got. i used to love going to mimi's on afternoons i was supposed to then go on to st. paul's united methodist church choir practice or confirmation classes. i often did not end up at st. pauls... but at the library, or walking the mean streets of downtown g'boro. but mimi would watch her "stories," catch me up on the plots, smoke and cough, tell me funny stories. but she was not my mom, and i didn't have to watch her mind decline. staying at the beach house! yay! gin rummy. boiled shrimp served on newspaper. happy hour. stupid question, but please be honest: does she need anything (beyond the obvious)?
One question, Jim R asked me to ask you if he could start swapping email with you. I told him I'd ask.
If you want to start the conversation, his email is x. um, holy shit, batman. why would he want to talk to me, and why would he want to swap howdies with me NOW? but, okay, i will send a pro forma. well, i will AFTER you tell me what he is like. i'm serious. all i remember is that he had red hair -- probably no longer, eh? -- and that mom once called his wife a whore.
That's all from here. Hope you're doing well--worry about you. i am not doing well and i am worried, too. scared. and feeling very alone, no matter that someone is around. i think the best i can hope for is dobby's sweet, loving face cheering me on when i die. right now, though, he is sitting like a very old guy, comfy in a well-worn [imaginary] la-z-boy, scratching his [imaginary] nuts, looking up now and then to smile at me like a little cat maniac.
Love to all, feline and human, at Marlinspike Hall.and all our love back...
Grader Boob Profderien
P.S. DO YOU NEED ANYTHING? smooches and hugs!
August 10, 2012
Howdy-- Just a short note for ya. Sitting in the office at XXX trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing--which is a full-time job all on its own. Haven't heard from you, so I do hope that the medicos are helping and not hurting you. I'll keep a good thought for you, no matter what your situation is--that's just the kind of guy I am. Pass along a howdy to Fred and the felines. Love, Grader Boob
PS. I'm attaching the photo I scanned for Jim R. I've got others that I've yet to get around to. This has Granddad reaching up and grabbing a tree limb. Shot from behind, it's always been one of my faves, so much so that I keep it in my office.
my brother-units, the photographers granddad, who was, at this point, blind
August 10, 2012 (17 minutes later)
dearest grader boob: a 17-minute response time, gotta be a record of some sort! let's just say i'm having a hard time, and that i should learn to shut up and get in the "having a hard time" line. too much pain for me to handle with anything approaching dignity. funniest anecdote of recent days: fred and i had two appts to make this week, the most important being making first contact with the hip surgeon, "world famous, one of the finest," via a meeting with his physician's assistant, one susan s. i should have been more aware of the probability for a screw-up, given the obvious seussian etymology of her name. we allow 45 minutes of driving time for all appts on the famed beechtree street, yes, the very street that orris du-MAH road up and down, selling milk by horse-drawn cart. we got caught behind a wreck, and arrived 10 minutes late. i should qualify that we arrived 10 minutes late to "the beechtree office" that i have used for the past 7 years. after another 15 minutes of sitting in the waiting room, a breathless clerk told us we were at the wrong office, that there was another beechtree office, two buildings down. we rush over there, me cursing the mindless clods in wheelchairs that were moseying along well below 3.5 mph, as i wove in, i wove out, approaching that maximum limit of 5 mph. we arrive, check in (again), are welcomed nicely and told to take a seat. a bit later, i hear my name, close my stephen king masterpiece, and roll in the direction of the beckoning noise. "profderien, you were late for your appointment and the PA decided she will not see you. your appt has been cancelled." mwa ha ha! the next funniest anecdote? yesterday, meeting with the gorgeous jacqueline j, PA to my world famous infectious disease doc. i explain why i don't have the testing her boss wanted all set up by the new hip doctor, seeing as how i had my appt cancelled due to tardiness. jacqueline has no sense of... well, i want to say ANYTHING, but i guess it would be more accurate to say... no sense of what we normal folk go through. so she says, "but, profderien, didn't you explain that you really needed that appointment, that it was important?" a beautiful woman, except when she has her brows furrowed as she faces yet another idiot patient. [they think my right hip prosthesis is infected. mwa ha ha!] moving right along, i love all the job offers you got, but want to scream out: trust no one! is mom alone at the cottage? personally, i would want to be, but probably not after just losing my husband... i hope she finds comfort there, and packs on a few pounds from the milkshakes. jim r never answered me... i may have said something "wrong," but i don't know what. lovely photo, grader boob. thanks for sending it. to be honest, i am fighting off suicidal tendencies. i think they are neurologically based, as asinine as that sounds. whenever a "spell" of crps dystonia/spasms begins, the first 15-20 minutes, all i can think of is suicide, literally. it's like it occurs in the part of my brain responsible for making-all-this-shit-worthwhile. after 20 minutes, i am okay again. i tell medicos, because i find it rather scary, but get The Stare in return. some of them talk about the limbic system, which is integrally connected, some think, to crps. i am more on the side, though, of the vast majority that believe there is no limbic system at all, so... there you go! should i write jim r. again? tell brute i love her. how goes the restaurant venture? (cannot recall if it was a restaurant or catering or bakery... help!) i'd say tell mom i love her, too, but i think she'd just be insulted. thanks so much for letting me know how she and "they" are doing. oh... yeah... and YOU... how you doin'? smooches and love, profderien, treading water
August 11, 2012
Howdy--
Hang in there.
I do have to compliment you on one thing--the lack of cursing and swearing in your anecdote. I supplied those as I was reading. (I've noticed that my swearing is always a union of two themes--sex and intellect; hence, as I was reading your email, my recurring epithet was a variation of "Motherfucking Nitwits" or "Cocksucking Morons". It's never race or gender with me--just sex and intellect.)
As for the darker tendencies, fight through them by imagining that you've killed the medical personnel instead. (No, that would be wrong.)
As for Jim, I'd not read anything into the silence. He seemed genuinely interested when we talked, so unless you told him off, I'd just wait it out. The ball's in his court then.
K and J's venture is called "X," a tasty xxxxxxxxxx concoction, and their target market seems to be the hoity toi or the local rednecks. They seem to be picking up a bit when last I spoke with her about them.
And Mom was planning to send you a thank you note. I think she's not gotten around to them yet. But like I said before, your card and boxwoods were so very sweet and considerate.
What a way with words you have--you have no idea. And I'll not tell you because I can't figure out what to write down!
Well, I think I'll leave this office and waste the day. Why work when you can just fret about it?
Love to those in Tête de Hergé. And don't forget that there's to be a Ryan on the Romney ticket--woo hoo. Jesus.
Grader Boob
August 17, 2012
hullo -- so where do you stand with classes -- none, some, an overabundance? feel ready? how's this for a wordsmith such as i? i'm pooped. fred got a ukulele! it's real cute and don't you dare ever tell him i said that. his workroom is now making musical space for three guitars, a keyboard, one drum thingy, and the itty bitty uke. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX? hell, i've got a new swear phrase right there. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX! no, i didn't tell jim off, you ninny. i don't know what i did. given the way things have been going, i just hope he's okay... i think it might kill me if mom were to write me a thank you note. may the earth swallow me up. is she safe there, alone? is their dog the protective type, you know, one look, and and an evil-doer takes off in the opposite direction? should i get her a taser for xmas? god, this must be hard for her. do you know what i've been watching on the telly, sometimes 4-5 episodes at a time? LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE. help! cat update: this here is dobby as i find him every morning after i've fetched my coffee. it's dobby's spa time -- 10 minutes of belly rubs (hence the pose) and combing/brushing. if you don't do it, he starts knocking stuff onto the floor. not kidding.
okay, marmy has not forgiven me for administering her eye "goop" when she had an infection. it's been about 2 months, and she'll have nothing to do with me. this is usually what i see:
buddy, our massive and soon to be massiver maine coon? it's almost impossible to get between his ears. so this is what he looks like. all i know about what he might be thinking is that it likely involves food.
i loves ya.
profderien fred is plucking away on his uke... but he'd wave or something if he knew i was writing...
August 26, 2010 (just prior to the RNC convention, held in Grader Boob's village)
okay, isaac is in place, what's next? i just wanted to drop a line to say "good job" on the category 2 hurricane, but do you think that will be enough? we don't want any deaths, like they had in haiti -- maybe the catering to the convention could be disrupted by old egg salad and the delegates/candidates forced to munch on matzot and lime-flavored bottled water. or magick cause the microphone to function only when ron paul speaks. so keep at it... but stay dry and safe, too. all my love, profderien
September 3, 2012
hey... just give me a simple "howdy, i'm busy, will write when i can.... but i am basically okay." or "things suck majorly, send in the troops." love, profderien September 4, 2012
Howdy-- Sorry for not responding, but I'm tired of sitting at the computer and seeing no end in sight or a solution to the "fine mess, Ollie" that I've put myself in. Am wrangling with 3 plagiarists as well, two from a XXX semester that's in its first week. What the hell are these people thinking? The time that these will take up is time I don't have. Will write once mood improves! (Good luck figuring out that nonexistent date!) Plus, all I want to do is sleep. If I thought I'd be around more, I'd buy me a dog. Well love to all in Ukuleleville. Grader Boob
PS. Sorry for the grumpiness. I have to make a concerted effort not to carry this into class. October 6, 2012
Howdy--
Haven't heard from you in awhile, so I hope you're doing well.
I'm slowly slipping over the edge, as the grading and the prep consume all of my days.
I've was ill on Monday and Tuesday, cancelling classes at both XXX and XXX. The revelation was that XXX expected me to line up a sub and to pass along my lesson plan. I chuckled and told them no sub but here's half a lesson plan! I then realized why I don't teach at the lower levels. Lost a lot of respect for the school. When I suggested just cancelling the class and that I could reschedule everything that was missed, I got back a line something like "we need to give the students all of the quality time they deserve."
XXX, as always, just cancelled the class for the day.
Either way, my reaction to both was the same--vomiting and sweating, sneezing and honking.
Well, I'm gonna step out of the office now. Came in at 4:30 to finish XXX's 110 papers. DId that and am trying to figure out what to do next. I've got a list but I'm avoiding it.
Many thanks for the too-much gift. Save your money and write me some emails!
(Now don't think you'll be getting it back. But do send those emails.)
Love to all the Tête-de-Hergéites.
Grader Boob
PS. Mom's doing okay--some days better than the others. K, or as she likes to say, "the sweet in Sweet Goobers," is doing fine and says howdy to you.
And that's the news.
I didn't see it but did Obama really do as poorly as everyone is claiming? Romney's such a stick figure--I can't imagine him besting anyone in any sort of conversation.
And I never heard back on your reaction to the "It was tense." joke. Huh?
October 6, 2012
you're just going to have to believe me when i tell you that i had TWO emails to you, both awaiting some sort of witty ending, i guess, sitting in my "drafts" folder.
because i LOVE that joke! hank loves that joke! it is my favorite kind of joke! the only joke i ever made up was modeled on that... model. it goes:
the bartender looks up and sees three guys walking into his bar. he screams: "get out of my bar!"
hahahaha! i love it. sure, i get strange looks, but it makes me laugh.
is mom really okay? i have no right to ask, i know, but what is she doing with her time? does she feel safe? does she still have the pooch? is it a watch-pooch? (rolling eyes) do you think it'd be okay if i dropped her a line. do you think she'd like my joke?
i'm trying to be insensitively sensitive. i cannot imagine how she must feel.
say "hey" and happy BD to brutus. is that sweet goober stuff selling?
now... screw XXX do the make-up classes and show them how it's done in the big boy, grown-up world. yes, i am in a mood.
because you are sick! if YOU say you cannot teach because you are sick... then you absolutely cannot! too bad on the spot "vomiting and sweating, sneezing and honking" couldn't have been magically produced upon their desktops.
crucial question: do you feel better?
moi? oh... well... i have been kicking specialist butt, just for fun. i had a revelation, much like the saul-into-paul thang, but not on the road to damascus, on the road to downtown atlanta, to park in another doctor's lot and pay $5 for the privilege. what would i be doing on the road to damascus anyway, do you think i am crazy?
i was badgered into seeing a hip ortho specialist to determine if the p. acnes bacteria had spread to my wily hips, as they hurt a LOT. he couldn't look me in the face, nor the hip, nor the leg. he sort of looked at the floor. he was "the best." everyone of my docs is "the best." he said, "even if they are infected, i wouldn't operate on you." bells went off and a voice came over the invisible loudspeaker, saying, "thanks for playing!"
so i reported back to all the specialists who thought he would help them out, and tried to ignore their discomfiture.
went home, got mad. thought about who HAD helped me, and it came down to two "practices" -- dr. s, my go-to-guy internist, and dr. d, who did 10+ shoulder surgeries trying to defeat that goddamn bacteria. thought some more. realized that EVERYTHING eventually gets dumped on dr. s, and that he never complains. he also fields ridiculous emails from me -- and i write in the same style for just about everyone. "audience" be damned. he is universally helpful, polite, and compassionate. also, very, very patient.
so... i went to d's PA, whom i like a lot. his name is bob! told bob i was done with trying to cure the osteomyelitis. (he actually teared up, the cad) decided i want good pain control and to be left alone. he recommended a medication -- mobic -- for bone pain. and it turned out that that was a splendiferous pick. it does help. god bless bob.
then i practically demanded an immediate appointment with my hawaiian-shirted, always-sandaled neurologist, barry m. ooooo, he made me mad. he kept saying, "i wish you would go find a great specialist who knew all about crps, a researcher somewhere... etcetera." finally, i blew. "i can't travel. and i am tired of specialists abdicating their responsibilities and dumping everything on s. so step up!"
lo, and behold: he prescribed an experimental drug i have been wanting to try and a stronger med for spasms. and though it is too early to tell much except that i am seeing double, i think they might also be helping with pain and spasms, as per The Grand Plan.
Did you know that to reference Quality of Life to a medico, you say "QOL"? ha!
so that's where i am at... trying to get used to three meds that are kicking my booty.
i will try to call tomorrow... cause i love you and hope you have a wunnerful, wunnerful birthday. the world is so much a better world for having you in it.
love,
profderien and a big hey from a very sleepy, just up fred. sans uke
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