My Normal: Am I There Yet?

I'm trying like crazy to return to "my normal."  

Garderobe, Peveril Castle, Derbyshire

This is a term now in my daily lexicon -- it used to be set apart.  (In that there field, yonder, a little farther, a little farther, more to your left -- LEFT, I said -- yep!  Right there!  Good job, Dear Reader!)  It used to be confined to exam rooms.  "So, would you say you're close to 'your normal'?" might be an insightful question for Dr. Shoulderman to ask after giving me a prosthesis, taking away a prosthesis, putting in a spacer, taking out a spacer, or removing the shoulder joint altogether.


The only intelligent answer is a one-sided shrug and a heart-felt muttered: "I guess so." Or just omit the shrug.  We never wanted to hurt Dr. Shoulderman's feelings.

It's that time that comes every three years or so.  My private long term insurance company that pays me 60% of my pay, post retraction of any bit of money due any agency (even my union dues!) at the level of pay I was receiving in the year 2000.  The following year, of course, was when Fred had to stop working because "someone" had to be here to call 911 in case I didn't feel like it. [Ha?]

I'm pretty sure they surveilled us and I bet that was a grand old time for some poor soul.

Anyway, now it's pretty much as my go-to-guy MDVIP doctor promised me it would be:  "No one, ever, is going to question your need for disability coverage.  This is permanent, this is not going to get better."

He actually does have a sense of humor, this devout man.  I've heard him laugh, even inappropriately (the true test of mental health).  I've seen him hold his head in his hands more, though.  And since he and his partner left their huge group practice to go off and practice excellence, he's felt free to say he'd pray for me.

One of his best jokes yet?  I said, "I hope you had a good Passover." He responded, "Did you go to an Easter sunrise service?"

I about died laughing.

So first thing I do wrong this time -- and I'm back to talking about getting re-certified as a bona fide gimpette -- was not notifying the disability insurance company that my phone number had changed.  Oopsies. (I'm channeling Rick Perry.)  So when my "case coordinator" attempted to call, and got the old "disconnected" message, her natural assumption was that I'd grown new arms, legs, bones, and a better brain and had run off to Mexico, living high on Mexican hogs via that aforementioned 60% bounty.  Plus the extra pesos brought in by selling my mail-order drugs.

That's right. I -- me -- moi -- am a cartel.

I knew I was up to something!

Anyway, this is always a time of stress, in spite of my humor-possessing but humor-skewed beloved doctor's assurances that I am "totally and permanently disabled." This is always the juncture when the neighbors might have mailed the company that tell-all video of Fred and me waltzing on the veranda, or me jogging off to teach my early morning yoga class at the community center eight miles down the road.

Hey!  Did I tell you that I have new whatchamacallits?  Elbow crutches, you know, with the cuff the fits on your arm?  Two of 'em!  One for each side, and yes, that part is tricky.  The goal is to be able to stand for three minutes (still don't get how anyone chose "three" as a goal) which I absolutely CANNOT do -- BUT I can walk around for almost that long!  Maybe half that long!  So long as I am within crash reach of the bed or wheelchair!  It's actually pretty cool, even if annoying know-it-all people around me keep changing the various length settings on the suckers.  Fred has never been man enough to accept that I am way-y-y taller than he is.  Way-y-y.

So the forms are here for me to fill out.  I keep moving them around.  I doubt I'll be able to write legibly.  Maybe I can type out the answers, print them, and attach that to the original document?  Or do they want to see me scribble?

On the phone -- we did "connect" -- Gladys, or whatever her name was, seemed thrilled that I still had the same doctor as three years ago, as six years ago, as nine years ago.  "That makes it easier!" she crowed.
I had to pause as a vivid image of the man, his head gently knocking against the doorframe, overwhelmed me.

Like Fred, he had told me he was "overwhelmed."

Neither of them know it, but both of those moments were... sea change.  Pearls, eyes.  But it doesn't read that way, seem that way, exist that way, for Gladys.

I'm still having gastrointestinal bleeds on an ongoing basis, particularly when I don't follow the strict instructions not to take the drugs which help my bone pain the most.  I am doing so less and less, until the next time I cannot use my legs due to pain, cannot straighten them, and definitely cannot stand on them.
Here's something funny.  You know how people lose socks?  That great eternal mystery?  I lost the ankle brace that was making my right ankle fracture bearable.  No, I am NOT kidding.  And I always thought the punchline was that socks had PAIRS.  I only have the one sweet, little brace -- it has no sibling.  My theory?  It's here.  Somewhere.  Yes, that qualifies as a theory.  What do you want?  There was a thief in the night (swam the icky algae-afflicted-as-never-before moat, jumped into Marlinspike Hall via a well-used garderobe -- eww! -- bypassed the small golden museum quality pieces scattered about and took, instead, my damn ankle brace?  Here's the blatant flaw in your version, bud -- I am not sleeping, not since the return of the suicide-inducing spaz attacks.  Even the cats are staying away.  And since I've started guessing at how much insulin I might be needing, I've been in a jolly blood sugar roller coaster kind of mood.  A bit of advice for you:  don't take insulin, then half eat half a salad.  You might be unlucky enough to fall asleep.  I -- being forced awake -- simply transformed into Hulkette, snarling and green.  Fred did the bright thing and ran to get the jalapeño, red pepper-flaked with Thai chili sauce brown rice to shove down my throat... running right past the left over holiday peppermint candy.

What I dislike most about episodes of the sort?  I get paranoid afterward.  Fred must hate me.  The Domestic Staff seems distant.  Bianca has a sudden extra shift at the bar (the opera was among the first and hardest hit by Tête de Hergé's plunge into forced sequestration -- damn this proclivity for copying the politics of governing exhibited by failed and dying systems!).  Buddy came, but decided I'd be best comforted if he deposited his Maine Coon ass right where my shoulder used to be.  Buddy left shortly thereafter, as in:  Buddy fled.

I dunno.  Am I back to "my normal" or not?

What?  You afraid I'll bite your freaking head off if you try and answer?

No Jackass Movie, But There's Always LaPierre

woodblock print: dear reader, can you
help me identify the aritst, "EW"?

Hi all, from this crowded bed.

We decided to forego some of our usual silliness -- roasting marshmallows in bed with flamethrowers,  Cirque du Soleil routines with the four-poster's delicate canopies -- and read each other selections of News From the Day, mostly out of the United States of America, since Tête de Hergé hasn't had much newsworthy going on.  Well, there is the recent crimewave, but since we had the accused in bed with us, that didn't seem a very compassionate topic.  Bianca has taken this recent setback in stride, is back on the medication that we thought were vitamins but turned out to be potent anti-psychotics, and has spearheaded a campaign to have her 4 new sets of mug shots reshot by a local glam photographer.  Then they could double as advertisements for the new operatic season.

That's my Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, always thinking.

Will Fred and I ever get our money back from the Milanese Nightingale for all the bail outs?  We don't know and try to adhere to the ancient wisdom that when you give, you give freely, with no expectation of thanks, appreciation, and especially -- no expectation of being paid back.  Ideally, we will one day reach the apex, that lofty place where one rejoices at being lucky enough to have been able to help, period.  Talk to me when I can be a true socialist and not have to soil my moral and political (what is the difference?) beliefs because I owe more money for medication in one month than I make in two.

Allow me to quote Mises:

A stock market is crucial to the existence of capitalism and private property. For it means that there is a functioning market in the exchange of private titles to the means of production. There can be no genuine private ownership of capital without a stock market: there can be no true socialism if such a market is allowed to exist.

The corollary?  All the Biancas stay in jail if GOOG dips below 700.

Of course, I haven't focused my laser brain on how the concept of "bail" and the rules of detention might be altered in a truly socialist society.  Mixing the "idea" of Bianca with any notion of greater good sort of shortcircuits my few remaining mother boards.

And yes, I know that quoting Ludwig von Mises is ridiculous, libertarian that he was, but I am surrounded by slippery slopes, such that I fear to make even one muscle twitch (as if I could control them!) and I then fall into some self-defining slide down Socialist Hill, or fall into the Libertarian Lava Flow.  With one major spasm, God forbid, I could be tumbling down Capitalist Crest into the Scary Valley of Invented Values.

Oops.  There I go again.

Anyway -- the worst of segues, but it's all I got, people, it's all I got -- I slept and slept again, and when I woke, the Dobby glommed upon me, goo-goo eyed and kissing my nose, my eyelids, then entangling his little claws in my earrings...  Well, when I woke, I couldn't get out of bed.

Not did not "want" to get out of bed (as in lazy, or as in the pain was that bad).  Not "chose" to stay in bed because, Lordy Lordy, isn't that the dream of every woman?  Not "was so depressed it seemed useless" to leave the quilts behind.

No, it was more that I'd lost control of my legs, which had also, in a separatist political ploy, added intense spasm and pain to their secessionist tendencies.

Dobby helped me develop the needed one-two-three strategy of the right medication, the breathing technique, and a few old PT tricks so that I could make it to the wheelchair {yoo-hoo!}, rev that baby up and make it to the bathroom.

Sorry, you may want to leave now.  Too much information, that sort of thing.

Thrilled as I was to make it to the bathroom, I was less than thrilled to have a meager output of urine, less even than yesterday, when my kidneys were lost in the hot, dry desert.  And I was frankly upset to discover severe g.i. bleeding -- yes, tarry, bloody stool.  It hasn't ever really stopped since we checked into the hearsepital last month, but had much improved.

But it was entirely my fault.  Two days ago, I was mentally weak.  I felt that the fever was besting me, defeating me, dominating me.  One syllable words exited my mouth as two, or hung, unfinished off my lower lip.

So I took the ibuprofen from its hiding place and took 400 mg.  Ultimately, in those two days, I took three doses of 400 mg.  And woke today knowing my hemoglobin was back to its favorite game of "How Low Can We Go?" -- played in competitive pairs.  Hemoglobin and Hematocrit facing off with fry-an-egg-on-my-head Febrility joined with an abundance of Neutrophil Dominatrices.

It was a cloudy, rainy day, at least on the lands of the Haddock Holding Company, and I was freezing, for reasons you don't need repeated.  First came Dobby -- who had briefly abandoned me for a bite of luscious kibble -- and then came Buddy, kind of shy but a wonderful source of warmth.  Then The Castafiore pirouetted her way into the bedroom, did an amazing leap, and landed squarely on my right leg.

I don't remember the next half-hour but when I regained consciousness, Fred, Sven, Cabana Boy, and, oddly enough, Abbott Truffatore had all arrived, with pillows, poofs, and fuzzy throws.  Some enterprising soul had ordered a huge box of samplers from Nuts.com -- and so it really felt like a kiss and a promise of some sort of Valentine's Day.

We had succulent dates, Turkish figs, vegetable chips, chocolate covered espresso beans, and spicy lime and chillied pistachios.  We had freeze-dried Fruit Cocktail and kumkwat slices, and some raw concoction that could have passed for old-fashioned fudge.

Me?  I sucked on the spicy lime and chillied pistachio shells, taking the donated leavings of one and all.  Fred's eyes sparkled, and I called him "Valentine," because he is, he is, my sweet, dear Fred.  He was the only one who knew my stomach could handle coffee -- with lots of sweet milk -- and quietly set it on my bedside table.

We thought of watching a movie, but when Tante Louise arrived, the wrench landed in the middle of that idea, for she has lists of proscriptions of what should and should not be watched.  Nothing with nipples.  No comedies. No historical reenactments that don't concur with Howard Zinn.

So that meant no Jackass movies, the one thing we had just agreed upon before she came breezing in.  I went back to sucking on pistachio shells.

But Tante Louise never disappoints.  Looking at our crestfallen faces, she handed out some actual homemade pecan brownies (but special, if you get my drift) and proposed that we substitute Jackass News of the Day for the Jackass movies.

We had fun with that, and with the American Congress being back in session, it wasn't hard to find material, though we divided our attention between those cowboys and other countries of the world that still supported monarchs.

There was much laughter and tossing of yogurt-coated pretzels.  Who knew that Sven had such a compelling reading voice?  That Tante Louise could mimic Queen Elizabeth to an almost scary degree?  The Abbott, of course, was rich in tales direct from The Vatican, though every now and then he dabbed a damp eye, having served in the Hitler Youth with the outgoing pontiff.

But what ended the hilarity, while winning top vote (in AllPoetry fashion, "clappies" from everyone!), was Wayne LaPierre's piece from the Daily Caller, which was actually, I believe, a fund-raising letter for the NRA.

Why should the pile of marvelous humanity and animal life curled and curlicued upon our bed have all the fun?  I am just sorry that you cannot hear Marmy Fluffy Butt's reading of it, as she leant Executive Vice-President her best occasional *ack*-*ack* treatment (she's in mid-development of a hefty hairball).

Here are some of the most choice morsels, and then I must get some more rest.  Before the crowd dispersed, they remade the bed with the sweetest smelling, softest quilts and pillows;  they lowered the lights so that only the mesmerizing flicker of the fireplace remained; and carefully tucked me in, insofar as one may tuck without any actual tucking going on.  It was the enactment of a beautiful friendship prayer.

Now, to dissipate that rock-a-baby lullaby mood, here is the beginning of Mr. LaPierre's article. Need I say that I've no problem with defenders of the Second Amendment?  Oh. Okay!  I've no problem with defenders of the Second Amendment.  But just as I think most of the oft-cited Founding Fathers would be shocked at how some think their thoughts immutable, when what they most prized was a constant questioning, and appropriate adaptation -- a vigilance not to a war of bullets but a vigilance against simple-minded demagoguery, a dumbing-down of the citizenry.

I say again, I've no problem with the Second Amendment.  But neither do I have a problem with a complete revision of the American Constitution, enlivened and updated by bright, freedom-loving, and world-aware patriots.  If there need be an NRA as a protector of civil liberty, I hope its members choose such a patriot -- in lieu of LaPierre -- to represent them.

I am thinking that Vegas would be a great place to hold the Constitutional Convention.

Perhaps I had better top off my pistachio shells with some yogurt rich in probiotics.  G'night, Dear Readers.

Guns and Gear:  Stand and Fight

Before I tell you how the NRA and our members are going to Stand And Fight politically and in the courts, let’s acknowledge that all over this country, tens of millions of Americans are already preparing to Stand And Fight to protect their families and homes. 

These good Americans are prudently getting ready to protect themselves. 

It has always been sensible for good citizens to own and carry firearms for lawful protection against violent criminals who prey on decent people. 

During the second Obama term, however, additional threats are growing. Latin American drug gangs have invaded every city of significant size in the United States. Phoenix is already one of the kidnapping capitals of the world, and though the states on the U.S./Mexico border may be the first places in the nation to suffer from cartel violence, by no means are they the last. 

The president flagrantly defies the 2006 federal law ordering the construction of a secure border fence along the entire Mexican border. So the border today remains porous not only to people seeking jobs in the U.S., but to criminals whose jobs are murder, rape, robbery and kidnapping. Ominously, the border also remains open to agents of al Qaeda and other terrorist organizations. Numerous intelligence sources have confirmed that foreign terrorists have identified the southern U.S. border as their path of entry into the country. 

When the next terrorist attack comes, the Obama administration won’t accept responsibility. Instead, it will do what it does every time: blame a scapegoat and count on Obama’s “mainstream” media enablers to go along. 

A heinous act of mass murder—either by terrorists or by some psychotic who should have been locked up long ago—will be the pretext to unleash a tsunami of gun control. 

No wonder Americans are buying guns in record numbers right now, while they still can and before their choice about which firearm is right for their family is taken away forever. 

After Hurricane Sandy, we saw the hellish world that the gun prohibitionists see as their utopia. Looters ran wild in south Brooklyn. There was no food, water or electricity. And if you wanted to walk several miles to get supplies, you better get back before dark, or you might not get home at all. 

Anti-gun New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg had already done everything he could to prevent law-abiding New Yorkers from owning guns, and he has made sure that no ordinary citizen will ever be allowed to carry a gun. He even refused to allow the National Guard into the city to restore civil order because Guardsmen carry guns! 

Meanwhile, President Obama is leading this country to financial ruin, borrowing over a trillion dollars a year for phony “stimulus” spending and other payoffs for his political cronies. Nobody knows if or when the fiscal collapse will come, but if the country is broke, there likely won’t be enough money to pay for police protection. And the American people know it. 

Hurricanes. Tornadoes. Riots. Terrorists. Gangs. Lone criminals. These are perils we are sure to face—not just maybe. It’s not paranoia to buy a gun. It’s survival. It’s responsible behavior, and it’s time we encourage law-abiding Americans to do just that. 

Since the election, millions of Americans have been lining up in front of gun stores, Cabela’s and Bass Pro Shops exercising their freedom while they still have it. They are demonstrating they have a mass determination to buy, own and use firearms. Millions of Americans are using market forces like never before to demonstrate their ardent support for our firearm freedoms. That’s one of the very best ways we can Stand And Fight. 

Inevitably, the anti-gun media and the gun-ban lobbies are demonizing the purchase of firearms. They call us “extremists” because we wonder whether we will be able to buy a semi-auto in three years or, even in some states, later this year. That’s despite the fact that President Obama long ago made clear that he wants to ban them all! 

The media try to make rank-and-file Americans feel guilty about buying a gun. The enemies of freedom demonize gun buyers and portray us as social lepers. But we know the truth. We know that responsible gun ownership exemplifies what is good and right about America. 

Responsible Americans realize that the world as we know it has changed. We, the American people, clearly see the daunting forces we will undoubtedly face: terrorists, crime, drug gangs, the possibility of Euro-style debt riots, civil unrest or natural disaster. 

Gun owners are not buying firearms because they anticipate a confrontation with the government. Rather, we anticipate confrontations where the government isn’t there—or simply doesn’t show up in time. 

To preserve the inalienable, individual human right to keep and bear arms—to withstand the siege that is coming—the NRA is building a four-year communications and resistance movement. The enemies of the Second Amendment will be met with unprecedented defiance, commitment and determination. We will Stand And Fight.

Read more: http://dailycaller.com/2013/02/13/stand-and-fight/#ixzz2KvsvfwvG