Enter the Cheesehead, Goo goo g' joob

This is... well, he has no name yet, except for Muenster, which we don't anticipate choosing as a permanent moniker.  Part of a litter discovered abandoned at a nearby horse farm, the rescuers gifted each kitten with the name of a cheese.

I dunno.  He's more of a Camembert, don't you think?

He is full of bad habits -- he bites (to the point of drawing blood and leaving little vampiresque punctures that hurt like the dickens);  he chews (more like a puppy than any kitten of my acquaintance);  he hisses and growls (given Marmy Fluffy Butt's aggression, understandable); and, in an apparent homage to Dobby, he climbs, and climbs, and climbs -- insisting on the highest ground.

The guess is that he is a Christmas 2010 baby, now approaching 12 weeks.  Exactly like a stubborn toddler, he plays to the point of exhaustion and then stubbornly fights sleep.  We have had a tendency to nod off while attempting to convince him of the benefits of slumber.  It's embarrassing.

The Feline Remnant is slowly coming around, although the outcome of his relationship with Our Favorite (and Only) Girl, Marmy Fluffy Butt, has yet to move beyond her active efforts to kill him.

Dobby is fascinated, pupils wide, pink nose sniffing, even taking gulps of mouth-whiffs.  It was a relief to not hear him pacing and calling all night long.

The efforts to save Uncle Kitty Big Balls, Fred's Little Boy, amounted, in dollars, to $2200.  Ouch.  But again, we made the decision, we would make the same decision today, so it is just time to pay up and thank the professionals for their hard work on his behalf.  I knew that I'd have to sell some shares of stock in order to cover the recent flooring adventure, so now I just have to dip a little deeper.  I am thinking of becoming a vegetarian again, and of giving up colas.  Cutting back on coffee.  Putting a moratorium on all non-essential purchases.  Selling my soul.

Fred is exhausted.  I just checked on him, and he's passed out, The Gnawing Cheesehead passed out with him, held close in the crook of an elbow.

He has been my stalwart companion this week, has Fred.  I don't express anywhere near often enough how much I love him -- in a daily, regular, unexciting way.  Add to that steady fondness, when he loves me through a hard time, I seem to lose all capacity to thank him, to show him how much he means, how thoroughly blessed I am.

1871 illustration by John Tenniel
Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

Wednesday afternoon, when I was doing pre-op stuff at the hospital, I kind of got swept into a back area before he got to the waiting room after parking Ruby, the Honda CRV.  It was one of a handful of times that I considered screaming his name, calling for help, for a salvation-oriented Knight of Marlinspike!

The first stumbling block was my fever.  Explaining to them that it's kinda status quo for me, that part of the point of the portacath was to make future endeavors like i.v. antibiotics that much easier... did not help the nurse's list of rules, according to which you just don't allow febrile women with high white counts to have surgery on some sort of ridiculous whim!

Then, just as I calmed that storm, she decided that I needed to be interviewed by anesthesia, even though I was just going to be sent into a twilight sleep for the very short and easy procedure. 

I am not sure that you can be a regular reader of this scintillating blog without having read at least one good rant about the events of May-June 2002, when I "acquired" CRPS during a hospitalization that was essentially a recreation of the Book of Job.  If you need a refresher, you'll find some of the details HERE.
Part of the rotten doings discovered by the State during their investigation were some problems in how the Anesthesia Department conducted itself.  I know the extent of the subsequent anger directed toward me because my pain management doctor at the time chaired that department... and chose to attack me during my next visit to him.  What he said to me was ludicrous;  The way he chose to strut his omniscient stuff, demean, misrepresent, and attempt to terrify me?  That was more criminal than ludicrous.

That is one way I know, with certainty, that St. Jo's and its doctors and nurses never really took responsibility for harnessing me with unending pain and terrible, worsening disability, for ending my career, for wiping me out financially, physically, emotionally, for probably being at the root of my current infection problems with osteomyelitis.  I know from hearing him yell and whine about how a 2-day investigation caused him and his underlings some temporary and fixable upset.

How dare I? was the essential tenor.

Shit.  Here I am, weeping again, furious, tired, so very damned defeated.

So... the rep from Anesthesia was apparently sent in to make a point.  I planned to reply honestly but as shortly as possible to any questions coming from them.  But who would start such an interview by saying this:

"So, in 2002, you came to the hospital to have your ankle repaired..."

What?  My mouth was flapping, but no noise came out.

Finally:  "Errr, no.  I came to have a shoulder replacement.  But there was a failure to supply me with stress-dosed steroids and..."

Ever so quickly, and with evident pleasure, she interrupted:  "We did supply you with appropriate steroids.  I have the order right here, and the notation that it was given..."

Still floored that we were even having this conversation, I told her I wasn't surprised, that I was sure that chart had seen numerous changes over the years...

It went on like that.  She either did not know or was coached to believe that the repair of my ankle was not a separate and elective hospitalization.  She told me "That's not so..." when I tried to explain that the ankle fractures occurred in the hospital, that I had arrived at good old St. Jo's with two good ankles, in fact.  I told her about the shoulder replacement, the code, ICU, the fall, the embolectomy, the g.i. bleed, the concussion, and finally, yes, the ankle repair -- all part and parcel of the same hospitalization.

"That's not so..."

I had a fever, of course, and was functioning on little sleep and a bit of sadness.  This was what I had feared -- being attacked while alone.  I vividly remembered that deaf nurse on that May day hissing at me... "Get up, get up.  Your leg is not broken.  Get up!" I vividly remembered my ankle hanging twisted in an unnatural way, rapidly swelling and turning purple.  I had just hit my head and my arm, was lying on the floor, alone with this strange nurse who spent most of her time without the hearing aid upon which she was dependent.  I was in ICU, had not been out of bed, much less on my feet, in over 5 days.

I vividly remembered trying to get up, trying to do what she said, trying not to make her more angry (she was quickly closing the door to my "room" as she hissed her directive to get up, get up, get up).  I remember the pain of trying to stand on that mangled foot, the terror of trying to please someone who may well have been crazy and who had control over me.

"That's not so..."

The surgeon who put in the port is a great guy and I am really glad to have had access to him.  Whether he knew "who I was" or not, I don't know.  All I cared about was getting that intravenous access to fulfill the demands of the doctor doing the ketamine infusions.  I just wanted to slip into the hospital and slip out again before triggering their memories or mine.

The surgeon was satisfied with the blood work we had done last Thursday at my Go-To-Guy's office.  We even called to make sure there was nothing else he needed, as far as pretesting, and was told that I just needed to sign some papers the day before the procedure.

I knew better.  I knew they wouldn't let my being on their campus go unchallenged.

Suddenly, I needed an EKG.  I needed more bloodwork, I needed this, I needed that.  Attempting to get out of it, I told them of our conversations with the attending surgeon.  Averting their eyes, the nurses mumbled that the orders were coming from... Anesthesia. 

I found some emotional reserve and said just one more thing before shutting down:  "All I ask is that tomorrow, when I come for surgery, you keep Dr. Steven S. away from me.  Keep him the hell away from me."

When I was finally back with Fred, who was getting worried about why this short appointment was taking so very long, it seemed the perfect thing to do... to go to the shelter to find a cat to save.

And so it was that in the midst of my ridiculousness, we adopted Muenster, The Cheesehead.

Yesterday, the day of surgery, everyone was polite, helpful, professional.  And, amazingly, most seemed not to know anything of the events of 2002.  What was also touching?  When they left my side, brow furrowed at how my history just did not seem to add up (How did all of this happen to you?  I fell down.) -- they went to read my chart.  The next time I saw them, I heard things like -- "I am so sorry you've had to go through all this..." 

It's nine years late and totally insufficient, and I was so grateful to hear it.

Who told Carolina that they could play?

from IdiomsByKids

A quick summary of schtuff:

My BP decided to become an issue, after a lifelong stint of being too low, by catapulting itself into the rafters.  200/110 last week, 160/110 yesterday at the MDVIP go-to-guy's office.  This making no sense, we deduced that it is the fault of those nasty eye drops... Combigan. 

Clearly, it wouldn't be exactly wise to trip out on i.v. ketamine on Monday with hypertension, particularly as ketamine causes an initial increase in blood pressure -- as part of its hallucinatory charms. 

So I stopped the drops and will put my head together with the EyeGuy next week... and go-to-guy put me on Bystolic.  He also strong-armed me into purchasing a BP kit.  What was sweet, though, was that he had researched prices and such.  That just adds a certain je-ne-sais-quoi to his character!  WhisperWhisperMurmurMurmur... I think they have that at Walmart for $40... WhisperWhisperMurmurMurmur...

Last night it was still high at 188/93 and I cursed the blood pressure gods.  Today, though, ha!  Ha!  I laugh in the pimply red face of hypertension.  Just now:  126/71.  Ta da!

We flew across hill and dale, took a sharp left at the Lone Alp, and arrived early for my appointment with the General Surgeon yesterday morning.  All well and good, except for the note on the door, dated September 2010, announcing that they'd moved their offices -- moved back to the hill, right behind the dale.

We flew, again, this time mumbling and grumbling under our various breaths.  Hot Stuff that we are, we *still* arrived with five minutes to spare. 

But not a half-hour early, as instructed!  [This is a new pet peeve.  Don't schedule an appointment with me and then, when you call to remind moi, say, "Please arrive a half-hour early..."  No!  Make the appointment for the actual time you actually want me to actually be there.]

He has a great staff, and he, himself, was very personable and able to sell me on getting a portacath put in (installed?)!  I loved his claim that "no one has ever regretted it." So, I am to show up at the hospital next Thursday morning, at an ungodly hour, and he will toss that sucker in me, hitch it up to the subclavian, and voilà!  Instant intravenous access.  For some reason, I have to go through pre-registration at the hospital the day before.  Kind of ridiculous for an itty-bitty procedure of this sort.

Okay, so I am touchy.  It's the same hospital where I was gifted with enough trauma and malpractice, mispractice and other-negative-insinuations, including the very CRPS for which I am now constantly seeking relief.  I was told, back in 2005, that "no one will treat you here, not a doctor, not a nurse, not a pharmacist..." That came out of the mouth of an orthopedic surgeon I had consulted, liked, and with whom I had scheduled a shoulder replacement.   (The right side;  The Sentinel Event was subsequent to the replacement on the left.)  Two days before surgery and someone decided to tell him "who I was."

That's right!  I'm THAT GIRL!

How ludicrous that he would threaten me with the big black ball when it was his colleague's malpractice at the heart of everything.  Talk about misplaced emotion and severely impaired thinking.

So anyway... yeah, I may peer half-blind from my gurney next week and see the same anesthesiologist who screamed at me that he and his department had been discomfited by my complaints about being nearly killed and successfully debilitated by his hospitals' various minions.

I'm thinking I might spit in his general direction.  Or something classy.

So, if you are keeping score:  Monday is Ketamine Day!  Tuesday is Recover from Ketamine Day!  Wednesday is go hang at the hospital and bleed into little tubes day!  Thursday is Put-In-The-Port Day!  And... I think I have a couple of appointments elsewhere... that I prob'ly ought to cancel.  Fred and Ruby, at least, would appreciate that.

Ach.  Oh, and today I am supposed to start another month-long love affair with antibiotics.  But that rx is sitting over at the pharmacy waiting for Fred to pick it up.  And Fred is pooped.  So... I say:  Tomorrow is soon enough. 

I am making Executive Decisions to beat the band.

I am full of hope.

I figure, until proven otherwise, I am a person who is at one with possibility and potential, all coming together at a certain point that can be graphed as Monday Afternoon, when their various forces and energies shall gift me with an orgasmic... CURE. 

Or something.

Maybe the hallucination of a cure?
Maybe a significant reduction in pain?
Maybe not?

Hell, it's a luxurious option just to be able to rest and cavort within Possibility and Potential all weekend.

"On Monday evening, darling, when I am cured, let's try that new Thai restaurant we noticed five years ago!"
"Sweet cheeks?  Tuesday morning, while I enjoy a significant reduction in pain, as established by the Visual Analog Score, I would love to give you an intensely rejuvenating back massage, the way I used to when my hands actually followed instructions from my brain.  Where did I stash that gallon of Patchouli?"
"Yo!  Fredster!  Reserve a court for Wednesday and I'll show you my best cross court volleys... And would you PUH-LEEZE put that damn wheelchair in the freaking attic?"

It is heresy to say, I know, but my excitement rivals -- oh, hell, it outshines by far -- this weekend's ACC tournament.  Who told Carolina that they could play?

[Talk about confusion -- Somehow, my computer keeps sending me to the 2009 ACC Tourney website.  Had me feeling positively daft...] [Also... I am so old school... my brain rejects VATech, BC, and Miami as even being part of the ACC.  I still barely allow for GATech and Florida State...] [Oh, let's be honest!  The only teams that really matter are from the superior northern Carolina, as Clemson, Maryland, South Carolina and Virginia are just meaningless examples of linguistic linguini, mere placeholders.  It's all about Duke, Carolina, N.C.State, and, well... Wake Forest.  Or maybe just Duke, Carolina, and N.C. State.  Errrr, actually, between you and me?  It's all Duke and Carolina.  I mean think about it.  That match up has it all -- public versus private, and a rich history of four corners and three-pointers.]  [Waving to Jim Valvano -- ah, those were the days!  The Cardiac Pack...] [Okay, I'm done now...]

It's Duke and Maryland at 7 tonight, with Florida State and Va Tech to follow.  Virginia, Wake, State, Ga Tech, and Miami are all already out...

the momentous visit to the famed clinic at the renowned institute

I meant to try and blog the details of Thursday's momentous visit to the famed clinic at the renowned institute... but I had my well-known reaction of collapsing afterward.  Indeed, Fred and I were still good for nothing yesterday, and it is early in this day yet.  He's gotten up and gone back to bed several times already.

We were invested body and soul in that visit.

Wednesday night, having trouble relaxing, finding sleep impossible, I went on the prowl for an old online friend from four or five years ago.  Matt has CRPS and is a brainiac, as he understands the intricacies of neurochemistry, pharmacology, physiology and all that schtuff -- plus he has that admirable attribute of being a calm fellow. 

Calm, but even so, obsessive. To his attractive equanimity, I was a pressure-valve release.  He could laugh as I intuited my way through hard science and discussed politics and cats in the same breath as dystonia and neurogenic skin ulcers. 

I went off into my own obsession as the infection in my bones insisted on Star Status, Center Stage, requiring that I be RingMaster of that Three Ring Circus.  Plus, my Hawaiian-shirted neurologist continued to harp on the necessity of not getting involved with online CRPS "communities." He worries that people in so much pain will simply suck the life and hope out of each other...   I've seen that happen, and worse.  I cringe when a "RSDer" decides to reveal all to some poor newcomer to the disease, coloring what might be opportunities as wastes of time and introducing the concept of "The Monster."   One day, I'll try to put together something cogent about "CRPS, The Monster."

Although he wears sandals in December, my neurologist is right.  What sense does it make, when pain and disability are busy limiting the scope of your life, to align yourself with people in the same plight, or worse?  It's like desiring to see farther and clearer by adding a filter of smeared vaseline to your lenses...

Odd that an optical analogy presents itself to my mind.

I was truly suffering with my eyes, also, on Wednesday night.  The new drops, Combigan, are kicking my booty.  Who knew (apparently, lots of people, just not moi) that eyedrops could wreck a person so?  Within minutes of using them, my energy level drops from Pathetic to Abysmal, and I want nothing more than to assume the fetal position for a few hours, in between spurts of horizontal vertigo that have me attempting to latch on to air. 

Of course, coloring all that wordy perception is the simple complication of hypoglycemia.  My relationship with blood sugar is perplexing, and is the only thing that I totally rely on my doctor to decipher -- because it stopped making sense to me years ago.  I don't technically have diabetes, but I have diabetes.  As in, my blood sugars are high due to corticosteroids, and then pushed higher by infection.  Not even insulin will bring it down some days -- prednisone and pus-y bones can do that.  However, when I take a round of antibiotics that knock the infection/inflammation back a bit, I have to remember to also cut back on the long-acting insulin formulation that I take twice a day -- or I might drift off in a deadly haze of plummeting blood sugars.

And drift off I have, several times now.  Thanks to violent shivering, I do manage to claw my way back to consciousness, and -- eventually -- to the realization that I need glucose, NOW.  An additional personal oddity?  In this state, I usually launch into some complicated preparation that will require a good hour of studious cooking before a single bite is at hand.  Yes, I will walk by a ready stash of hard candy, ignore the thirsty, stylized come-ons of the orange juice in the fridge, and proceed to whip up a batch of, say, onion bahji -- the traditional hypoglycemic rescue food. 

All of which to say that I was a bleeping mess come Thursday -- thoroughly dispirited, hypoglycemic, eyes inflamed and, honestly, pretty dim, too.  (I don't know how, exactly, but a blood pressure that rang in at a robust 200/110 probably contributed to my feeling a tad strange.)

Despite having spent a good portion of the past three years hanging out in waiting rooms and infusion centers overlooking the same street we were seeking, we got lost.  Fred needed to curse and bang the wheel, so that brief foray into uncharted territory was good for him.  Not so much for me, perhaps, although we had no clue at that moment that my various inner pressures nearing meltdown numbers... be they high, be they low!

It turns out that my cocky conclusion of having been to this clinic before was wrong.  That is a good "wrong," for a change.  My experience at the prior joint, back in 2004, while not horrendous, was not something I was anxious to repeat.

The famed clinic is actually located on the esteemed ground floor of the world-renowned hospital, whose purpose is specializing in "medical treatment, research and rehabilitation for people with spinal cord injury or brain injury."  As you enter the main building, you pass a statue, bronze, I think.  It's of a young man in a wheelchair, testing the heft of a javelin that he holds in his right hand, while his left steadies the rim of a wheel.

That sculpture bothered me.  While trying to find a picture of it to share here, I encountered others who seemed to share my discomfiture.  One person, trying really hard to name the problem, posited that there was too much of a disconnect in a modern athlete as occupant of a clearly modern and sleek chair -- for the rendition to be in bronze.  I give that critic an "A" for effort!

The problem with the damn thing is having to face it straight away, first thing, on your first entry to the joint, on your first day, you know?

Me, I have issues with the whole "exceptional people" commandment that drives many attitudes about disabled people, sick people, "disadvantaged" people, whatever the hell... And when I confess that, I can read the internal memos as they're being written up and posted.

Notice:  This woman is a lazy ingrate.

Imagine, though, that you come here knowing nothing, unprepared.  Do you think:  "Wow!  Though paraplegic, I can still become a worldclass track and field athelete!  Cool wheels!" Or do you think:  "What the fuck doe this have to do with me?  And who dressed that gimp?"

Representation is fraught with issues, is all I'm saying.

So we are directed to take a right, then a left.  As we turn into the waiting area for the Pain Clinic, we pass their Multiple Sclerosis Clinic.  There's a clinic for everything -- Seating and Wheelchair Clinic, Brain Injury Rehab, Spinal Injury Rehab, Swallowing Disorders Clinic, Urology Services.

Most everyone, except the outpatients, sports a smile and oozes that kind of kindness peculiar to hardwon equanimity.  The inpatients are almost cocky in their competence, popping wheelies and doing handstands, breaking into song and dance with the slightest provocation.  We outpatients, though, we know we have to go back out there, out past the Javelin Dude, beyond all that cozy exceptionalism back into "Meh"-Land.

I have it so easy.

There was a harried woman ahead of me in the line to sign in -- she sported that well-known short haircut of the busy woman.  Once upon a time a stylish bob, now stringy and tired, the tips of her blunt cut swing down to cover her cheeks as she corrects an address and provides a new identification number for her son's insurance.  He is tall and rangy, a stick figure painstakingly shackled to the full frame of his high tech chair, controlled by breaths puffed into a straw.  The angle of his head to his neck, and all that to the line of his shoulders make him look like an incomplete assembly.  Like maybe there are some pieces missing that are stashed in his backpack.  But no one stopped to reattach his head to his neck or to correct the impossible angle of his left knee, wrongly twisting away from the descending bones of his lower leg.  And why do these creatures always seem to be staring at the ceiling, and drooling?

They called his name before his Mom was done fixing all the forms, which had the effect of making her spill the contents of her fanny-pack, her hands shaking, as she tried to make off with the Sign In pen, to the consternation of the Sign In Nazi.  Her son blew a righteous puff and sped past her to the waiting nurse and the inner sanctum of The Clinic, Mom eventually bobbing and weaving in his wake.

I thought of all that went into just getting there.  Of how carefully she had organized her fanny-pack, of how painstakingly she had cleaned him, changed him, shaved and dressed him, done his respiratory toilet, all the while murmuring lists, questions, and magic words for the doctors who would breeze in, breeze out.  I thought of how tired she must be.  I did not dare think of him in terms of words, at all.  When I tried, I got a great big noisy nothing.

They wanted urine so they could do a toxicology screen but I was not able to pee enough.  I had purposely not taken any Lasix that morning, not wanting to have to go to the bathroom while we were out!  Despite my good faith offering, the nurse gave me a calculating glare.  I told her I'd try again when I was leaving... but I forgot.  I don't think it will matter as I was not there trying to score a script -- No, I was there trying to score some Special K, and intravenously, too!

I lie -- the nurses were all wonderful, and very kind.  They make the visit as easy as is possible, even those aspects involving paperwork and insurance contact.  Never have I experienced such confident, blithe assertions that there would be "no problems with the insurance, just leave it to us!" My jaw kept hitting the floor...

Asked whether I needed help putting on a gown, I allowed as to how that wouldn't be necessary because I wouldn't be disrobing.

Not even a flicker of annoyance on their part!  They knew then that my vital signs were not cooperating and that my smile involved not just ill-suppressed joy but also gritted teeth.  Plus, the purplish-black legs were a dead giveaway.

Suddenly afraid that by refusing the gown I would be labelled, I offered to do it if the doctor really insisted... but in lieu of his insistence, I got the doctor himself, not bothered and going straight to work.  My records had been faxed, my Go-To Guy had authored a personal plea, and I made sure to reach for his hand and establish a firm character.  Unfortunately, I also yelled "ow!"

It only took about 20 minutes for him to size me up, even less for me to figure him out.  There were two nurses present, one his assistant, the other from the infusion center where the ketamine is meted out.  As usual, worries centered on the unresolved bone/joint infections and my overall crappiness.  I felt my hope dying and tried to fix a polite expression on my face and think of nothing much...

Then he was saying, "Let's give it a shot."

Blink.  Blink.  Blink?

Excuse me.  Excuse me?

"The only thing is... you have to be realistic." So he did his Five Minutes On Realistic... and I sat there grinning like a fool.

I missed almost everything he said and had to ask the nurses to stay when he left and fill me in!  They were extraordinary, offering tips for my first experience with subanesthetic ketamine.  Normally, the doctor "consents" patients in the clinic before they come for the infusions.  He had refused to do that with me, requiring that an i.v. catheter be successfully placed before he'd go through that process.  In fact, most of his concern seemed to be about i.v. access, to the extent that he insisted I get a permanent port if I decided to continue after the first infusion.  ("If"!)  He would go into more detail about dose and scheduling options if I actually have some pain relief from the first infusion.  ("If"!)

You see, I have not entertained even a moment's doubt that this was going to work. 

That's right -- I can write about geeks and disabled people missing parts, demeaning this, demeaning that, but don't get between me and a chance.

In my opinion, this is the very first chance I've had to beat CRPS.  The first in almost 10 years of incessant pain and ever-increasing disability.  Ten years of profound depression, loss of career and colleagues, the amazing and magical disappearance of both family and friends, the suffocation of any and all vestiges of intimacy... well, you get the Pathetic Picture.  If you don't get it, I refer you to almost any week's worth of posts in this blog.

There followed some nit-picky detail work, including a trip to the pharmacy and some scouting of the area to smooth out the wrinkles of our next visit.

I was giddy with happiness;  Fred was shocked, taken aback.  He did not think they would admit me to the program.  Not to worry, though, I wore him down with the persistence of my joy!

Back in the day -- you know, code for when I used illegal drugs but still managed to excel in almost every endeavor -- I did not much mess with strong hallucinogens.  Fred has been evil, enjoying my anxious wriggling as he regales me with tales of giant insects patrolling the walls, mandibles clicking...

Yesterday, just as I was regaining my balance and telling myself I'd probably not hallucinate at all, not one bit, nary a millisecond... When I hit upon a woman's facebook page wherein she shares her experiences with this treatment.  At the hands of the same doctor, at the same rehab hospital.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!  It involved her becoming an avenging angel styled after a character from the movie Avatar, green bubbles, and vomiting.  Lots of vomiting.



Please pray for my sorry hallucinating ass come next Monday, March 14!  Pray, especially, that if I am doomed to become some movie personnage, that I not dip into my cache of Mad Max obsessions.  Aunty Entity might just claw her way out as soon as we hit the 100 milligram mark of that special, special K. Or Mighty Wez...

BOP! ZAP! BOING!

yay!

my first ketamine treatment

will be on 14 march.

take that, crps!  BOP!  ZAP!  BOING!

in the meantime, i need to get

a port put in for i.v. access...