Obéissance: Protect the 'nads

The reason for this repost?  Franchement? The cartoon.  Because that's pretty much how I'm feeling these days.  For non-French speakers, it goes something like this:
"You can do anything you like...
So long as it's what I want you to do."

I particularly dislike having to display "obéissance" when it concerns my body, because that means it upsets Fred's status quo and his upset status quo can be Hell to live with.  It takes a lot of his time and most of his dwindling reserves of patience to ferry me back-and-forth to the doctor, sit in ER/ED waiting rooms, field frantic phone calls about forgotten rechargers for phones and other electronic devices.  [Don't tell me to go wifi unless you're willing to finance the endeavor.]  

I'm supposed to email by very nice HMO doctor tomorrow to report on the status of my infected foot. [Because no one, apparently, gives a good goddamn about my right hand turning into a swollen claw!] What to say, when facing a 3-day weekend and people more interested in getting to the various Folke Faires around Tête de Hergé than interested in butt-ugly hands and feet?  Truth be told (and that reserved just for you, Dear Readers!), the foot is bright red and the infection returning to its original volcano-like presentation (Is that good? Bad? Will it burst open and solve its own problem?)  Further truthes?  My right hand is swelling, hurting, and fast becoming useless.  Despite the difficulties in assessing temperature in a CRPS patient, to me, the offending middle knuckle, which began this hand boogerishousness is quite warm.

So "obéissance" is again in question.  Could this foot-and-hand disease be put off until next Tuesday, when the Force of the Medicos will again be at full power? Or should I submit to the standing offer to go back in the hearsepital for i.v. vancomycin, and a possible PICC line.  Let me elaborate on what may seem, to you, an easy choice.  Once the definitive switch back to vanco, it means Fred will make at least 4 trips a week to an infusion center, and probably for at least a month.  This at a time when we are sick to death of things dealing with sickness.  

There. That makes my rationale for posting this past pithiness from May 2009 clear as MUD!  You're welcome.  And it's your forebearance, Dearest of Dear Readers, that endears you so to me.  I think there will be another brief hiatus in posting... The Truth will out, after all -- because it is Truth which ought to drive all expressions of Obéissance.

*********************************************

A mélange, a mix.

That's all I am good for at the moment. But, as most of us are, I am open to suggestions.

It looks like Uncle Kitty Big Balls is going to be a cool member of The Family. A very poised little dude, ugly as sin with his fur shaved off, he saunters his maigre self around The Manor every few hours, shaking what little butt he has much in the manner of The Marmy Marmot. When the two of them vocalize, it's a hoot. She goes: "Ack-ack-ack!" He mumbles back: "Ark-ark-ark!" You'd think they were inveterate cigar smokers. Which, of coursed, is just impossible.

What's wrong with you?

It's a national day of prayer, privately. Some of my friends think there is an "issue" to visit in this; I do not. Unless it is an extremely slow news day -- something that the U.S. citizenry might well enjoy for a change.

ShoulderMan's PA, Bountiful Bob, was, as always, very kind yesterday. {I, feel, very, attracted, to, the, comma.} One of their techs alternates between freaking me out and being a regular intrigue. So it was highly uncharacteristic for him to greet me by saying, "Are you all right? You gave us quite a scare last week..." He kept saying it, bless his bones, reminding me that being near death is the easy job -- Attending to the situation should not be envied. On the other hand? The x-ray tech was unhappy with me when I refused to assume the position for one of the shoulder views, and therefore created something ex nihilo -- and five shots later, she still had not succeeded in her approximations. I had dollar signs flying by my eyes. Bob stood with furrowed brow and dark, unreadable films tucked in the lightbox. I pondered the probable extra heft of my bill and inwardly rejoiced at having my stitches out, the promise of a shower in my future, as soon as I can manoeuver my dainty dancing feet and sufficiently SaranWrap my PICC line. We've never been able to keep the line dry -- it is put in the non-operated arm, of course, meaning that it is in the only usable arm and is therefore subject to being hit with water.

Fascinating.

Okay, so I was browsing TW's blogs, and over on X, he posted this hilarious and touching family moment:



During the night, I was doing one of my favorite memory exercises: visualizing every house I have ever lived in, every school I ever attended. The various digressions that peel off these onions are wonderful, and exacting. This time, I ended up stuck in an elementary school in California, where I was the Undisputed Tether Ball Champion of the World. Second grade.

I remember the Second Grade primarily for two reasons -- beyond my sporting prowess:
1. I was punished for reading, and,
2. Our teacher kept sending us home with bags of guppies, which eventually pushed my stepmother over the edge of reason.

The reading punishment? We had finished some sort of in-class writing assignment, probably working on our "cursive," as I recall this teacher was a maniac for crap like the loops of one's els. When finished early, we were supposed to put our heads down on the desk on top of our folded arms. Well, yawn, y'know? So I had stashed a book -- and not just *any* book, but Harriet the Spy -- inside my desk. With my head down in obéissance+, I began a new chapter. Next thing I knew, this stellar educator was whacking my palm with a ruler. I don't recall if there ensued any sort of [parental] conference, or sustained punishment -- all I know is that I felt loved by my stepmother, herself a teacher, and that she defended me.

No, not so much like a lioness, more like a proper stepmother. You know? The roles felt well-defined, and that's a pretty rare thing in blended families.

Defended for reading. Punished for reading. Whacky.

A day later, my sentiment, like the worm, turned. At supper -- spaghetti and meatballs -- I swallowed a huge ice cube, and it went down the wrong way. I was choking. Unable to speak. She laughed at me. Then she laughed at my anger at being laughed at. One of those Mother::Daughter special moments. Like the day I first plucked my eyebrows -- at 13, I think -- and she, sipping on her drinkie-poo, reacted by saying, "Oh no! Your one good feature -- gone!"

She had this habit of coyly dipping her pinky-finger into her drinks, and sucking on it, making eyes.

+Obéissance: L'obéissance ou soumission à l'autorité est l'une des formes de l'influence sociale. En psychologie sociale, on parle d'obéissance quand une personne adopte un comportement différent parce qu'un autre individu, perçu comme une source d'autorité, le lui demande. L' individu dominé reconnait à une personne, ou à un gouvernement une valeur certaine. Lorsque cette reconnaissance est faite, l'individu passe alors un accord tacite, un consentement avec le supérieur qu'il a reconnu; Il échange sa liberté contre la volonté générale d'être assuré et sécurisé.

Les recherches les plus connues sur l'obéissance sont dues au psychologue américain Stanley Milgram. Dans son expérience de soumission à l'autorité, il amène des gens normaux à infliger des chocs électriques de plus en plus forts à un autre sujet (en fait un compère, c'est-à-dire un expérimentateur qui prétend être un sujet de l'expérience) qui supplie d'arrêter l'expérience puis crie et se tait, comme s'il était victime d'un malaise. Certains en prennent comptes mais d'autre ne la respecte pas car ce n'est pas une obligation.

A la suite de Milgram, l'expérience de Charles K. Hofling a montré que 21 infirmières expérimentées sur 22 était près à donner une surdose d'un médicament inconnu sur ordre d'un médecin inconnu au téléphone.

This schtuff is fascinating, no? Imagine. In Hofling's experiment, 21 of 22 nurses ready to give an overdose of a med unknown to them --"Astrofen" -- by order of a doctor, who was also unknown to them -- an order taken over the phone, no less! That was in 1966... Rank, in 1976, changed some of the parameters of the study [30 mg of Valium, IM -- and subjects were allowed to interact with colleagues] and stood the results on end: 16 of 18 nurses questioned the orders.

Shocking...









Obedience. Consent. Informed consent. Authority.

Our secret desires.

Obéissance:

A manifestation of obedience; an expression of difference or respect; homage; a bow; a courtesy.

Bathsheba bowed and did obeisance unto the king. --1 Kings i. 16.

I am not able to sleep more than two hours a night from pain that is amazingly straightforward. I have been encouraged to let so-and-so know, as if so-and-so were able to alter reality with a prescription pad.

Anyway, this lack of rest fuels the penchant for mélange.

The cultural anthropology of this cat group that teems around my swollen ankles would fascinate anyone. The wonders of family dynamics, the unexpected likenesses, and the quirky divergence --

Marmy is smug and happy to have her brother ark-ark-ing from beneath our bed; Dobby's brain is clearly spinning as he tries to figure the point of origin for his oddly familiar uncle; and Sammy is hissing and tucking his tail to protect the 'nads.

That's probably what I would be doing, too, were I he.

If I have learned nothing else of value in this life, it is that: For God's sake, protect the 'nads.

"Guess you better slow that Mustang down..."

My fever reached such a pitch that I found myself babbling to Dobby -- as, once again, Dobby was the only living entity williing (even eager, sweet thing) to be with me as I crossed the 102 degree mark.

He likes to hear the story of his birth as I brush his belly.  Don't even try to leave out a part, or his tail starts twitching and he glares.  Should you try to skip over the part where Marmy went to sleep with Dobby only maybe an eighth born, Dobby might gently scratch you or gnaw on your nearest part, in my case, a juicy  thumb.  If you attempt to gloss over his inability to find teat, much less mother's milk, and his early propensity for climbing Marmy in lieu of using her for sustenance, not even a dose of nip will save you.

It was Tuesday, today, infectious disease doods and doodettes day, and I dislike them.  The day, not the doods.  The Tuesdays.

I saw the head honcho ID dood, and that apparently made me forget every question or thing I wished to discuss.  For his part, he had prepared by reviewing all the blood cultures but not the regular lab work.  It wasn't until I got shuffled back to the Infusion Center, where the nurse was giving an inspired rendition of her favorite Zumba workout routine, that I ogled and "oh no-ed" over last week's labs.  She's entertained her captive audience of infected persons, tied to tubing and cuffs, beeping things, before, and usually I don't mind, but today... my head hurt, and my PICC line would not give up any blood, so I was having to sit and wait for this magic roto-rooter stuff to clear the clog. Meaning more shaking, jostling booty Zumba dancing for me.

I first met her last fall, and we went through the whole CRPS explanation and the shoulder situation, and still, today, she likes to punctuate her Zumba Joy by gifting me with little slaps on my left shoulder.  When I ask her to please not touch me, she gives a Zumba Joy Impish Grin and cries, "Why, I guess it's just the nurse in me!" (The desire to touch?)

I should probably call it the body-part-formerly-known-as-shoulder.





Whatever, she is a good nurse but I think something she did today may have triggered this spike.  I think we need to pull this damn PICC line out because it may be the source of the new infection.  After she gave me the clot-busting medicine and so was able to draw labs, I started getting chills, and by the time we got home, I was downright lousy.

Is it crazy to think the PICC line might be infected, even though they've added cefepime?  Two Tuesdays ago, when I got tossed back into Hospital Hilton, I spiked within an hour after doing an infusion.

Okay, I don't have a medical degree, and I know that what looks like cause and effect to a non-sect member makes real medicos chuckle in the dark of night, but come on!

I broke the rules [SURPRISE!] when Tylenol did its usual nothing and dug out my beloved ibuprofen.  I took 600 mg and if I could cross my fingers, oh, sistren and brethren, they'd be so freaking crossed!

I had promised Fred a special tilapia hash stuffed poblano pepper dinner but as he curled up into a blessed nap and I fainted getting out of the wheelchair into bed -- it's San Miguel beer and greek yogurt for everyone!

Feel free to join us.  Dobby's all a-flutter, as he finds poblano peppers pretty tame as far as peppers go, but the dear boy is a yogurt maniac.

When things occasionally really sucked in my life, my Dad used to make me repeat after him that "the sun is still going to come up tomorrow."  How is that comfort, when the evidence screams that tomorrow will be very much like today?

Zumba Nurse was trying, for some reason, to play me her ringtone as I was caterwall-wheeling my way out of the infusion center.  "Mustang Sally." 

a little sepsis here, a little sepsis there...

hey, all.

fred gently got me into our dear ruby, the honda crv, and whisked me home from the hospital this evening.

i was pretty darned sick last weekend, worse on monday, but knew i had the weekly infectious disease appointment, so i figured i'd whiteknuckle it until then -- 1 pm, tuesday.

tuesday, my temp was 99.6 when i woke, but i was feeling clunky as all get out.  i did the morning routines, including infusing the i.v. antibiotic.  an hour or so later, it was 103.5 and i ran some clothes through the dryer  so that i could pile them on me and get warm.  you surely felt the world shaking about then.

but i could make it to 1 pm.

we got there, me with quilts, and involuntary tears, fred just tired of it all.

the receptionist informed me my appointment was at 11:45.  i told her i was sorry and that i was really, really, really sick.

so they found this very nice PA with whom i had never worked and he said "whoa, girl, you're sck."  i said, "sniff...  i know... sniff."  he got the head dude, who looked me over from a safe distance, and said, "man, you must feel like crap." he then outlined my two options:

1.  check in across the street at Hotel Hospital, OR
2.  while i was in his office's infusion center, i could let them "juice me up" with some i.v. fluids while they did labs, changed dressing, etc.

oh, and since clearly there was some new infection in play, i could also receive the first infusion of the new drug he was adding.

i opted for getting juiced up.   it sounded like the closest thing to sex that i'd been offered in... a while.

but as i settled in back in the infusion center, things got harder, then easier, then harder and harder.  as the last of the juice ran in, i went crazy.  the pain was beyond belief.  i couldn't breathe, everything and something was very wrong.  "call 911," i finally yelled and did curly-q thingies with my wheelchair.

the staff at id-dood's place is wonderful but i am quite sure i frealed everyone out.

and blah blah -- i was taken across the street to the ER by stupid ambulance.  can't wait for that bill.

at one point, we had three abx running.

but my temp came down a degree every 8 hours or so.

for the second time in a few weeks, i got culture results:   blood culture results came back positive. nothing like a little sepsis to make life interesting.

anyway, i am home again.

$3 Million

What a morning.  Don't trust surgical paper tape to hold your PICC line thingies firmly attached to your forearm, and forget that ridiculous webbed fabric designed to hold everything in place.  I woke to find my two ports and their attached plastic tubules all a-wandering around the bed, one even under a Maine Coon.

For the record, I've decided that Buddy was misnamed, by me.  Instead of following Fred's advice of waiting for the cat to name itself, I rushed and forced "Buddy" upon him.  He is clearly a "Bubba." Whatever the case, he answers to bonito flakes.  We are actually concerned now that he is not putting on sufficient weight to compensate for the alarming length he has acquired.  He's a thin guy, not a swarthy molecule to my Bubba, no.

The great thing about finding blood in your PICC lines for the third or fourth times, is that it is the third or fourth time, and you didn't expire during those first few incidences, so likelihood is in your favor.

Also, I was all wrapped up in this warm dream about being offered $3 million by some lawyer that my infectious disease dood introduced to me, in a meeting with him, both of my PAs (Jacqueline and Susan), the wondrous on-site pharmacist (Lauren), and yes, this swell dude in a three-piece tweed suit and a bowler.  No shit!  Very clever and full of excitement, I had Fred drive us to the Best Credit Union West of the Lone Alp in Tête de Hergé.  He was pretty pissed (in real life as in my sleeping version) at me for bossing him around, didn't want to go to the Credit Union.  I don't know why, they love him there.  He shows them his sweet, shy side and is sweet on Ruth, the Head Credit Union Honchette.

They have lots of rocking chairs, braided rugs, beautiful quilts on the walls, chocolate cookies and milk in one corner, also a cage for toddlers disguised as a welcoming play pen.

Anyway, I zoomed into my banking institution, gave Ruth the eye, and she and I left Fred in a rocking chair with a spare Credit Union cat and an experimental latte (they're trying out a bikini barista -- bikinis à la Annette Funicello).

Framed art print for sale at eu.artcom

So Ruth opened a few dozen accounts, some for me, some for Fred, one for Bianca, one each for the Brother-Units, one for a few former best friends.  I gave Ruth a big freaking tip which she deftly tucked into her G-cup over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder.

Then I make Fred drive us to a car dealership.  Not just any car dealership, but the one that sells the car of his dreams.  You know, the old Pagani Zonda dealership.  You can find them, usually, near a KFC.  Anyway, yes, the order is in for one Zonda 760LH, (convertible).

The dream ended there, almost.  The last memory I have of it is receiving a phone call from Doctor ShoulderMan who told me two things:  that he had bought me a home of  my own, where I could live, comfortably, safely, and happily alone, and that in it he had put a very special bed that would ease much of my pain.

Then I woke up.

Back to the bloody PICC lines, the Former Buddy, a sweet-natured Dobby, and the echo of a slammed bathroom door that I assume came from the aforementioned Fred.  Marmy Fluffy Butt's tail drifted in and out of my sclerotic vision.  Sven, no doubt tightly spooned with La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, gave an angry yell at the door slam, then apparently lapsed back into the redemptive, cushy love of our Diva.

I am tempted to give Fred a new name, too.   And it ain't "Bubba."

So hauling my ass out of this bed without the use of one arm, and with both legs currently in awful shape -- the right refusing to bend at knee or hip for a good few minutes, mostly from swelling, partly from spite -- and with none of the expected orthopedic help apparatus in place.  You know, like a trapeze bar.  Mostly that.  I could do wonders, I could qualify for the Olympics were there a trapeze up there. Marta Károlyi, herself, has said, sighing, "Prof, dah-link, working with the over-bed trapeze would make you incomparable in uneven bars, and with just a little make-up and disguising do-dads, we could slip you into the men's still rings, maybe even the pommel horse.

Marta Károlyi is disappointed in me.  Hey, Marta, gimme $3 million and a decent gourmand for a coach, and I'm your girl/guy.  Kisses to Bela.

I use my wheelchair, parallel-parked by the bed, a cane, and sometimes a grabber, to achieve an upright status.  Lately, frustration has led me to also use a fair amount of force on the underside of the bedside table. This is likely a poor idea, as all things give, all things give way.

Careful to keep our small wing of The Manor steeped in good quiet, I squelched my way to the Medieval Kitchen, stoked the fire (in spite of forecasts of temps above 100 for the day), started the coffee, retrieved a 200 ml medicine ball of daptomycin, three saline flushes, two heparin flushes, two alcohol wipes, and washed the singularity out of my hands.  Wash, wash, wash, clean towel.  

The mewling, meowing, and outright cat screaming interrupts the PICC process and kibble is presented, to each according to the proper bowl, each with its own protocol.  

The kettle whistles precisely in the middle of the PICC flushes, and I opt for quieting the overly excited Paul Revere, since Sven may de-spoon from The Castafiore and come kill me, and Fred might make a fast break to lower the drawbridge, as -- when rudely wakened -- he mistakes loud noises for requests to cross the moat.

So my huge scoop of Italian roast is sitting in its nice hot water in my café presse, and I start the 9-minute timer in my head.  That's right -- I steep the stuff for 9 minutes, despite the expert admonition to stop at four. I'm a freaking radical.

So there are two ports, one purple, one red.  Because daptomycin only needs to be given once a day, we cleverly use the purple port for all infusions and the red one for all blood draws.  Red::blood, get it?  Because, yes, unbelievably, when we had to do twice-a-day infusions, and alternate ports, we'd get confused.  But now, all I gotta remember is red is for blood.  

This morning, though, both ports are streaked with blood, and the coffee isn't ready.  So I flush them both, using the whole saline and heparin repertoire, twice.  I have no idea if this will impact anything -- I doubt it, when I stop to think about it, after having done it, after having a few sips of excellent 9-minute café presse Italian roast with a good splash of milk ("It does a body good!").  

Finally, I hook up the stupid medicine ball, which is the whole point.  I am wearing scrubs (great pajamas) because the pockets are perfect for holding medicine balls.  The technical term for these med balls is "elastomeric device," and they look like this, when fresh from the fridge:

See?  So you just tuck the sucker in a large pocket and before you know it, poof!  It's a shrunken bit o'plastic and all the medicine is running around your body, curing you of whatever.  And you've been ambulating, catapulting, scrubbing, and pruning tree branches that loom way too close to a Chagall stained glass that we just discovered this spring.  

This disposable plastic dodad is the kind of inventions that I really admire.  I am not at all sure, but the clever inventors seem to be:

Thompson, Thomas C. (Dallas, TX)

Center, John L. (Dallas, TX)

Stocton, Paul M. (Clarendon Hills, IL)

They called it: WINGED INFUSION HOLDING DEVICE WITH THERMOPLASTIC ELASTOMERIC BODY and the date for the patent is 1974.

Ah, clearly, I have lost le fil de ma pensée.  What a shocker.

Because I haven't even told you about the invasion.  The ant invasion.

I keep a clean Manor, damn it.  There is no sugar being all sexy on my counters or floors.  The honeysuckle is strictly kept in line with the out-of-doors.

So it was that my eyes bugged out to see a four-lane highway of teeny, tiny ants marching, marching, marching, with clear intent and purpose, across the floor of our communal craft room (you know how I feel about scrapbooking!).  

All right, it is not an interesting story and hardly a catastrophe, but for a woman who has yet to take her pain meds, with bloody PICC lines, and who has just rolled her wheelchair through a fresh heavy-on-kibble and very wet hair ball, it wasn't packaged happiness.

Fred, who knows a lot about a lot, later explained to me that sometimes a heat wave will inspire these annoyingly cute little insects to up and move their home base somewhere cooler.  This "somewhere cooler" for our crowd was a certain spot under a large throw rug.  Careful inspection of their destination revealed nothing special -- no spills, no nothing.  Just a huge rally of a few thousand peewee ants.

It took me three hours to feel comfortable that they'd all been eradicated -- and greenly, safely, so as to pose no danger to man, woman, or beast.  I followed their highways and byways, swept, mopped, wept, swept, and mopped some more.  I washed the offensive section of the rug.  I vacuumed the whole damn rug -- each side.

And when I was done, sometime around 2 PM?  Everyone got up, stretching, meandering for the bathrooms, searching for good coffee, murmuring vague "good mornings" to the bloody, red-faced, mop-wielding me.  Only Sven paused to listen to my exciting tale and wonderings about formic acid, scratching his crotch as if a few of the invaders had somehow invaded him.

In my next dream, when I meet with Ruth at the Best Credit Union West of the Lone Alp in Tête de Hergé in order to deposit my $3 million, I get all the money, in cash, and Fred doesn't even have to drive me to the border.  I'll take a cab.

Ruth still gets the wad of bills to stuff in her bra, though.  Fair is fair.

Why I Cannot Commit Suicide

I'm a mess.  There are things to do about it, and I'm working my way to and through them.

On one level, oh Sweet Lord, I want a shower.  To this there are challenges and warnings, but I have faith in Saran Wrap, paper tape, a portable shower head, and a growing "who cares" attitude that is building up a head of steam. The lower part of the incision is doing its gravitational obéissance and leaking, and then there is the whole no shoulder thing.

On another level, but really pretty perpendicular, or lateral, or... the same, I need to figure a way to stop this eating in my sleep business.  Waking with a spoon laden with Carbsense Peach yogurt kind of latched onto your pajama top is... well, hell, we've reached the point of BORING.  No marinara sauce, no sushi, no chocolate oatmeal (my *waking* favorite meal of the moment).  Just weirdly gelled and separated Carbsense Peach yogurt, neatly spooned, and attached mid-boobies.

Other messes are harder.  Like, if I keep giving away all my love and possessions, do I have to fit the suicidal paradigm?

If Fred actually helps me with the budget for 2012, and yes, I DO know that it's essentially JULY, does that mean anything?  And if he doesn't, and I stick to my threatened ultimatum of arbitrarily assigning weighted financial responsibilities according to my guilt-driven whims, does he really hate me that much?

If Marmy doesn't overcome her resentment of my treatment of her herpes infected eyeballs, I may just melt into nothingness.  She wants me;  I want her -- yet all we can accomplish are mutual sexy eye winks and finger-nose kisses.  She has this thing where she loves no one but the boy cats from around 5 AM to noon, when serious sleeping commences for her, them, and most of the inhabitants of Marlinspike Hall, the Haddock family's ancestral home.  If you've not heard of the Haddocks and cannot locate Tête de Hergé on MapQuest, don't feel bad -- the world is getting bigger every day, and we're just in another part of it.
Anyway, Marmy Fluffy Butt *will* socialize with humans after 5 PM, but only in one room, and only when she is standing on the floor, ready and able to make a run for it.  Around 10 PM, she's a delightfully uncomplicated creature, who will do the flop and let you play with her warm belly.  Anyone at all can pick her up, love on her, be utterly silly with her and have her trill-and-twirl her way right into their hearts... except for moi.  I get a clear hiss and a glimpse, plus a whiff, of the tartar and tooth decay we have to highjack her to the vet for next.

She's no fool.  She's seen three of her dearest friends go off to the vet and not return.  So when I bring my supplies to treat her funky eye, and those supplies still smell of vet smells, I am not to be trusted.

Dobby is still with me, though he grieves.  I am crying too much, too much the fool, and losing my focus.  The focus should be Dobby's derrière, it's need for a light and deft whacking.  Every encounter requires a few minutes of brushing, as well.  Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten has no messes (beyond hairballs -- he's a Maine Coon who abhors being brushed) except for a small daily requirement of pounds and pounds of bonito flakes.

Messes?  I guess not, not really.  These probably fit the bill better:

Why turn the page of a mediocre novel?
Who cares if you need more pain medication?
Thanking a person is nothing.  Showing by some sort of doing, that's the ticket.  But how do you get out of the crap of this tit-for-tat nonsense?  How are you, you, trapped in that tit-tat nonsense more than anyone, not hurt when there's no light in the eye, back?  There's no spark of memory, recognition, nothing?
What's the answer to "How are you able to sustain such good spirits?"
I've had a strong and very compelling urge to drink -- single malt whiskey only.  Sudden, strong, compelling, and always ignored.  I don't drink.

I have a mess with the IRS, or will, if I don't file soon.  See, I don't *need* to file... don't owe, nothing of that sort.  But I have crap to report and haven't taken the blessed 5 minutes to do it.

The surgery I need on my eyes, that I've just been putting off until the Shoulder Saga ended, hahahahahaha, has become messy because Propionibacterium acnes is one of the more horrid complications.  When I see the good eye doctor again, she will likely laugh at this mess I've built in my mind from reading the silly interwebs.

I am switching from the very small amount of methadone that I was on (15 mg/day) to fentanyl patches.  But I forgot about tapering down the methadone and just switched.  I cannot count the number of eyes that I've watched roll and loop-the-loop when I launch into "My Mess" speech after hearing that.

Am I a lumbering pharmaceutical?  Am I my WBC count, my sed rate, my CRP?

There is no one to whom I want to give the beautiful gold jade-y and celadon-y green red ruby earrings that R brought me from Iran.  What a pisser of a reason to have to stay alive, that I don't wear gold.  I wear silver.  That doesn't impact on the giving-them-away part of things, except to say that figuring their weight in love is complicated by lack of use.  And thus, I am saved, left to my messes.*

* And my alegiance, no joke, to the courage of Hannah.

How to Flush a PICC Line (and drop your camera in a sink of water)

The process of giving yourself a "ball" of intravenous antibiotics involves then flushing the lines that the PICC (peripherally inserted central catheters) has in place somewhere around the... oh, i dunno, the superior vena cava:  

So here is my essentially one-handed, one-armed demonstration of the process -- a great film event until the video camera fell backward into a sink full of water.  It seems fine, thank goodness.  Otherwise?  There'd be no more viral cat videos, feline bits of amusement that I know you all live for....

postoperative poopy-doops, and so on, and so, forth!

dear kind reader[s],

here's a [very] rough breakdown of Things Since Surgery, as composed earlier today [friday]:

one of the first things i heard while coming around was some news broadcaster calling newt gingrich "a nimble politician," so i knew i was either in hell or awake. 

here's a quick summary: 

the prosthesis was very infected, confirmed by frozen section during surgery
but whether it will grow in the lab is anyone's guess [if you have celestial influence, that's the wish to use it on]
he had to split the bone, unfortunately
he put in antibiotic laced spacer made of what's called "surgical cement"
i arrived in room from PACU with NO i.v. access and that was surely fun
on my birthday, i got a PICC line and a second regional block -- woo hoo!
the spasms arrived, along with dr. b, my favorite infectious disease doctor
dr. b, too, wants YOU to pray for The Crud to grow in the lab
spasms and pain brought me to my first ever declaration of 10/10 on the pain scale
needed 2 units of blood
they got permission, over my protests, to use my left forearm for the BP cuff during transfusion

i protested because that could cause CRPS spread in a freshly operated limb

and... the CRPS promptly spread
i was devastated
asked my ortho and dr. b to send me home so i could get pain control
they agreed
fred got to the hospital after the last drop o'blood, riding my wheelchair into the room like a knight in shining armor
we needed all kind of help to get my massively swollen and oh-so-fetching body folded into my wheelchair
[did i mention that the chair is on its last legs? that we were hoping the new one would arrive before surgery?]
fred had kept it nonstop on its charger
so, of course, we turned on the power, and... NOTHING... DEAD... KAPUT...
we got home but it was not pretty, nor comfortable
fred has been challenged and we are just trying to survive
we had to be at dr. b's place the next morning at 10
we made it... got re-trained in PICC line administration of vancomycin
by the time we got home, nerves and tempers were shot
but it's been uphill since then
fred forwarded all your email replies earlier today
and he was so wise to do that - as it gave me a wonderful lift.
he thanks you
i thank you
i love you!

I'm just sayin'

I'm home!*

The Good Doctor ShoulderMan worked his magic on Monday, gifting me with a new left shoulder. He had to do some rearranging but he made it work.

But, of course, this being me (me, under the everloving influence of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, both of us under the magic skies deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé) -- well.

Well, on the "deep tissue" stain, we finally found bacteria waving back at us, all gram-positive-y, upbeat, and downright defiant. But, of course, this being me (me, under the everloving influence of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, both of us under the magic skies deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé)-- Wait one freaking minute! (The fog of anesthesia?)

As of Day 2, there was, natch, no growth on culture! My Infectious Disease Dood's eyes are bugging out. Bless his bones, he cannot decide when, and how much, to lie to me -- in his mind, I think, he sees this as "managing" the patient.

Because, you see, I refused insertion of a PICC line. They thought I was just posturing, joshing, when I made the declaration before surgery. But, of course, this being me (me, under the everloving influence of La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, both of us under the magic skies deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé) -- arg! Sorry about that, and je vous prie de bien vouloir m'excuser, too -- covering all my bases.

So, Infectious Disease Dood decides that I need Zyvox, a ridiculously expensive antibiotic that just happens to have serious interaction issues with 3 of my meds, as well as some nasty side effects all on its own. The deciding factor? Insurance coverage, as the $1500/week cost doesn't fit my very tired budget. Anyway... Fred and I think it was all a plot. As in, ID Dood was expecting BCBS -- Bull Crap Bull Skeet of Tête-de-Hergé -- to refuse coverage.

I was held hostage, told I could not leave the hospital without either the Zyvox or a PICC line with trusty i.v. med balls full of vancomycin.

[I know that it's overkill for the vanco hyperlink to refer back to this blog, but it astonished me, upon searching, to find out how much vancomycin has occupied my life and mind, and what it has come to signify. Allow me that rare {raspy cough} professorial moment of recommending a read of Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5. Wunnerful wunnerful commentary --

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

I'm just sayin'.]

Fools! They didn't know with whom they were messing. Once Fred, all bleary-eyed and pooped, arrived... well, we were hell-bent on leaving the hearsepital. At that point, ID Dood and His ID Minions began weaving tangled webs.

Case managers arrived. All nurses with decision-making capacity suddenly were off the floor, scarfing down lunch. And didn't I wish to order lunch? And, uh-oh, the medication you must take before eating hasn't come up from pharmacy. Let's get a blood sugar and another set of vitals! And then they sneak in: They'll be up to put in the line in about 2 hours, no need to go down to Interventional Radiology, how great is that? [I despise the huge, cold, scary room down in IR.]

They promise a nirvana-inducing insertion, complete with a soundtrack. And lest I scoff, they cite:

PICC the Music and Travel to the Port of Relaxation: Preliminary Results of the Effects of Music on Perceived Pain and Anxiety During the Placement of Ports and PICCs
Journal of Radiology Nursing, Volume 26, Issue 2, Pages 61-62
C. McDaniel, M. Burkett, M. Cormier, J. Duvallm, S. Davis, L. East, G. Gilmer, N. Mahaffey, M. Moran

Giggle.

We left. Politely. Give me a call when you all figure out the antibiotic situation, okay?

Amazingly, BCBS of Tête de Hergé decided to fork over the money and my pharmacist, who inexplicably informs me that "[i]t's like déja-vu," promises that I'll have these ridiculous little white tablets by noon the next day.

My BCBS policy, for which I pay $1328/month [Remember: my (private) disability income is a whopping $1996.20. Without that luxurious twenty extra cents, all would be lost!] -- My policy dictates that I pay for medications and then receive reimbursement of whatever they think arbitrarily fair.

So what a hoot it was to have Discover Card's Fraud Unit calling me, all breathless. Did I know that a $3030.00 charge was just made at the nearby Huge Grocery Chain? That was for a mere 14 days worth, ID Dood suggesting I buy the Zyvox in 2 wk lots, in case I need to stop it for some reason or other. Anyway, to the inquiry about the charge:

"Yep!" said I.

There was a tremendous pause. It was absolutely KILLING the woman on the other end of the line to not be told WHAT I had bought. So she rephrased the question, and, on cue, reiterated the pregnant pause.

"That's right!" I crowed. Her frustration was now palpable.

Why not give her something to liven up the day? Let her imagine an elegant late dinner of lobster and caviar, un petit souper à la parisienne [or A Family of Sans-Culottes refreshing, after the fatigues of the day]. Just a little casse-croûte thrown together by a retired French prof whose purchase habits extended to extravagances of generic yogurt and diet cola. Okay, okay -- I also splurge on almonds and good coffee.

By the time the credit card gods were appeased, the antibacterial troops put all in a ducky row, my clothes 'n sundries put away, urgent emails answered, ablutions completed, phone calls returned? I truly felt like shit. I was febrile to the tune of 101 degrees, sweating, and hurting like the proverbial Dickens ["Fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of friendship; and pass the rosy wine!" -- ummm, any excuse for passing on my favorite Dickens quote].

Alas, poor Yorrick (sic), a quick and easy search about the origin of the phrase "hurts like the dickens" reveals the following:

Posted by James Briggs on December 18, 2001

In Reply to: Re: Hurts like the dickens posted by R. Berg on December 18, 2001

: : My son said this at supper tonight........."It hurt like the Dickens". We wondered if any one knows the origin? I have also heard "scared the dickens out of me". Any enlightenment would be appreciated.

: From the archives, here's a response to the same question.

: Posted by ESC on January 12, 2001:

: "Dickens" is a euphemism for "devil" as in "'what the dickens,'.an
expression common centuries before Charles Dickens was born, having been used by
Shakespeare in 'The Merry Wives of Windsor'." "Morris Dictionary of Word and
Phrase Origins" by William and Mary Morris (HarperCollins, New York, 1977,
1988).

It may be an altered pronunciation of "devilkin"

En tout cas... since then, it's been a topsy-turvy time but anything beats being in the hearsepital. And, thank goodness, we only have to visit ID DoodLand once a week versus the usual three or four times.

My MDVIP Go-To-Guy? He opined in an email: "I'm glad it's over and done with. We are all a bit skeptical that this will take care of everything but please try and keep positive thoughts and prayers as we all are trying to do." I have noticed that since his switch to MDVIP, he communicates much more freely and makes frequent reference to prayer, saying that I am being kept in prayer. At first, I was somewhat taken aback. Now? I am thoroughly appreciative and almost virginal in the prose with which I write him.

However, I will visit Holy Ruin on the first person to suggest removal of this prosthesis.

I'm just sayin'.

*******************************************************************************************

*graphic of huge mouth courtesy of BENBENEK BLOG -- from an entry which consists of the following:

I’m just sayin’…
I’m pretty tired of people using the phrase “I’m just sayin’…”