A Letter From My Buddy Barack Obama

I love it, more Secret Service Envy headed my way!  Having been the only instructor at Major Gothic Wonder Land University to hold a required class on the day Ronald Reagan came to jabber at the undergraduates, and wave at the picketing grad students, I am a favorite of the Secret Service.  What they can't figure out is the "no-make ups allowed" major exam question that equally (always *equally*) excited my students -- made up of 14 upperclass undergrads and 1 relieved Divinity School doctoral student:

Explain, dissect, conjugate, and defend the following assertion:Michael Reagan, son of United States of America President Ronald Reagan will one day serve on the board of The John Douglas French Alzheimer's Foundation.

Of course, this pretty standard "no-make ups allowed" major exam question was in French, as this was a course designed to dunk -- by which I mean, of course, immerse students into French Lit.  As you can tell from the question, we had just finished reading Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot.

Oops.  Train of thought problems, yet again.  I was telling you about the letter I just personally retrieved from my private email account -- known only to my best of best Facebook Friends. [Loud guffaw! I have a fake Facebook account and about, oh, two Friends, all the rest being right-wing relatives.  My two Friends are right-wingers, as well, but tolerant.   Very tolerant.]

So, yeah, it was from Barack.  My buddy Barack.

[Look, let me settle this, as I just was barraged, nay, blitzkrieged by two Super Secret Facebook Friends who are actual full-blood relatives and consider themselves, and I quote:  "progressive as hell, girl!" Fine, let them assert their leftist tendencies.  Yes, their leftist tendencies surpass even my own, to the extent that I doubt either of them have ever voted in their entire political adult lives.  Not even for McGovern.  Okay... I'm telling lies now.  Let's just say that they may temper their support for President Obama due to expectations of a shift to the left by a rather large amount.  Not this profderien, no ma'am! I adore, respect, love, admire, and imitate this intelligent sign of life -- and his awesome family -- every chance I get.  Well, okay, so there are a few things, policy-wise, that could use a slight Marxist tweak, but, most days, I'm fine with that.]

That's right. The President, himself, writing to The Moi, care of, admittedly, the Haddock Corporation (now completely divested from Halliburton *).

 * Can you freaking believe that "Halliburton" pops up as a correction in SPELL CHECK?! How screwed up is that?  I mean does "amnety internatenal" show up in spell check? No, it does not, thankyouverymuch!  Jesus.

Cough.  Yes, my friend Barack wrote to thank me -- just me -- for my round-the-clock, high tech multi-year campaign on behalf of the watered-down Affordable Care Act.  I keep referring him to my other dearest pal, Bernie Sanders, but haven't heard yet how that's going (so much to talk about!).

In the past, as many a Beloved Reader of this blog recalls, I have shared a few of my personally keyboarded letters to our President -- never violating protocol, naturally, but always seeking advice from the now deceased Tante Louise on how best to post presidential correspondence. 
Well, okay.  Tante Louise and I may have flubbed a few posts in which my buddy Barack figured, but we toed the, er, red line in the, er, sand when it came to my personal, and by personal I mean one-on-one, tête-à-tête sorts of intimate, soul searching, letters.  The whole Flaubert and Bob Herbert catastrophe.  The admittedly odd basketball post.

Even when you limit a search of this blog to "Obama, ACA," there are just a half-dozen or so weird ones...  I mean, omit blog war waged on Walmart, and the regrettable incident in which I claimed not to be able to support "Obamacare" until Socialism was in place.  I was on drugs.  You can tell, I bet.  I mean, look -- clearly, I say often enough that Obamacare -- the ACA, the PCIP, whatever you like to call it -- saved my life.

Probably, that's all my vast reading public needs to know:  President Barack Obama saved my life.
And then pulls off this comedic email in which he pretends I had something to do with this brave legislative and moral effort [ ::waving:: at teddy!].

That is a true friend, indeed.

Oh hell, there is a man in a terribly plain blue suit that has been tailored, clearly, to hold a spare machine gun and drone in the small of his large back... peeking in the badly leaded hand-poured window panes that stud the upper chamber of the Computer Turret.  I have repeatedly and repeatedly asked Barack, even "cc"-ing Michelle, to have the damned Secret Service "STAND DOWN," already!

Jesus.

Lincoln's Presidential Seal

[Hi there, prof-de-rien!  How're they hanging?]

I had to take a moment to say thank you.

Lisa, you made history.

A long line of organizers fought for nearly 100 years to make health care reform a reality, and now we're seeing the results. Millions of Americans have health insurance today, thanks to reform -- some for the first time in their lives.

The work you did is how real, lasting change gets made, and I hope it will be remembered for years to come.

I'm so happy your name will be there, alongside mine, as part of OFA's permanent record of the people who made health care reform happen.

If you know anyone else who deserves to be recognized, tell them to add their name here:

http://my.barackobama.com/You-Made-History

Anyone who was part of this decades-long fight will tell you it was never easy, but it was always the right thing to do. Teddy Roosevelt knew it. Harry Truman knew it. Teddy Kennedy sure knew it.

No matter how hard it got, the results we're seeing today make it all worthwhile. Millions of Americans now have coverage, and even more have better health care, thanks to the work you did.

Take a moment to let that sink in.

It's proof that when people come together and fight for what they believe in, real, lasting change is possible.

I can't thank you enough,

Barack Obama





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fed everyone.

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

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

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

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

My blood work from Monday came back all wacky.

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

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

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

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

Be/Loved

Hello, Dedicated Reader Base!

I was discharged from the hospital yesterday afternoon, to the great relief of everyone involved, particularly the hospitalists and nurses. When I am a little stronger, a post on hospitalists and certain types of RN will be forthcoming. I am pretty sure that the three hospitalists (one an intensive care hospitalist, one a pulmonologist, one a whiz-girl at internal medicine) were not "Happy." And I am positive that Happy the Hospitalist (The Happy Hospitalist) would not recognize himself in the performance of these particular three colleagues.

Anyway, the short version:

Surgery went well, although we failed in our goal of putting in a full shoulder prosthesis because the orthopedic surgeon found more infection... that continues to *not* grow in petri dishes. Later that night, I twice went into what we will call respiratory distress -- O2 sats dropped from the low 90s to the 30s within 5 seconds. I learned the meaning of gratitude at that moment, because my nurse happened to have just walked in the room. I mean, being on continuous monitoring doesn't do a whole heck of a lot of good if no one is watching! She stuck to me like glue until a Super-Duper Respiratory Therapist arrived, who then rescued me a second time. We were on our way to Intensive Care before the third episode even had a chance. I don't remember the third go 'round, anyway, as I was, if you can believe these medical types, "obtunded," and they proceeded to tube and then attach moi to a vent.

Yadda yadda -- I'll spare 'ya. [EEGs, CT scans, MRIs, echos, blood sugars and more!]

After some mis / management -- that wasn't all that big a deal, so long as you weren't the patient -- and a few days time, I am home. With the infection still blooming, and the explanations still lacking. We're doing i.v. vancomycin through the PICC line again.

The Poor Fredster. He is sleeping in this morning, and I am so glad. He is lovely, have I told you?

The fog of appreciation

This photograph was taken by Caroline Tallmadge.
Dr. Tallmadge is staff anesthesiologist at The Ottawa Hospital Civic campus.

I don't know if there is a scientifically proven relationship between increased stupidity and time spent under general anesthesia, but I certainly suspect one... and present myself as Exhibit A.

Three times this morning I have hauled myself out of bed, into the wheelchair -- the whole while calling upon the Grace of God and invoking the Names of Various Allied Deities and Cohorts -- out to the kitchen, the feline triumvirate trotting along in my wake, only to lose myself upon arrival -- feeling much as you might, right now, lost in an uncharted sentence.

My pain levels are out of control. I have a pharmaceutical arsenal that I can, and maybe should,
use to bring things in line, but I am also too easily woozed. (Okay. We have "woozy," yes? Then we also ought to revel in the intransitive verb "to wooze." Right? Right!) In my war against the woozies, drugs are the enemy. Still, the battlefield being my tenuous body::mind continuum -- consortium? consortia? keiretsu? -- there is an inherent obligation to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.

Oops.

I made a request of the anesthesiologist last Monday that she seemed to regard as odd: to tell me in advance when she was going to launch me into the hinterlands*. This last surgery was the fourth major operation in six months and, paradoxically, the prospect of "going under" was increasingly terrifying. I tried to share this feeling with The Fredster but he chose to address it as a foolishness (not out of meanness... more out of denial... at the oddest moments he will tell me of whole days spent at my bedside, me unconscious and on a ventilator, of doctors warning him that I likely would die in the night, and how I wish I could take those memories away!).

Anyway?

Back on December 22, the last go 'round, I was in the middle of a private panic when I suddenly felt consciousness draining away -- and terror is the word, was the word. I need the anchor of knowing, of being prepared, of time to say "thank you." Odd, the thank you thing. It's so important to me, to be able to thank the doctors and nurses before I -- before I went wherever I was going. To the hinterland, behind the borders of the river. In December, despite what I am sure were major doses of amnesia-inducing drugs, I woke to the same panic that that swept me away hours before, and now -- 7 weeks later, the feeling really had not passed.

It felt like my dirty little secret, my personal island of insanity. I've had two "near death experiences" -- profound, even *gasp* very profound! -- and those experiences serve as anchors of calm, so the panic that has recently taken hold is not so much about death as it is about... saying thank you, and knowing that my thanks have been received.

And so it went that this slightly scoffing woman, standing behind my head and looking more at her monitors than at my scared face, gave me a good 15 seconds of warning and became the person to receive my gratitude.

I wonder if she might know what I keep going to the kitchen for?

Food seems likely. Or cat treats? Coffee? Tea? Cola? Juice? Medicine ball? Something to defrost? Or am I meant to go beyond, down the ramp to the laundry room? Hey. That's most likely... so I should turn back and grab a load of dirties!

In all seriousness, my cognitive abilities have taken a big hit. I cannot easily concentrate on a movie or for more than 10 minutes or so of reading. My memory seems impaired and my mood is particularly depressed. I do believe there is something akin to a "fog" that's directly attributable to anesthesia -- but I don't have the wherewithall to research it!

Really? I need to be imbued -- again, and now, in normal times, in this last bit of "ordinary" time -- with that pre-operative sense of gratitude**.

*hinterland in Wiktionary, the free dictionary:
The hinterland is the land or district behind the borders of a coast or river. Specifically, by the doctrine of the hinterland, the word is applied to the inland region lying behind a port, claimed by the state that owns the coast. [Such a beautiful word for the topography of the layers of consciousness, particularly when one tires of references to the peeling onion.]

**One can pay back the loan of gold, but one dies forever in debt to those who are kind. -- Malayan proverb (I love quotation sites -- This was the very first result when I searched quotegarden.com for "Thank you" quotes and isn't it perfect? Would that I could so distill my chatter...)

Thanksgiving

Lordy. I almost forgot Thanksgiving.

And *that* should wake me up, the part of me that needs to be taking the forefront -- the grateful me.

For I am grateful, deeply so.

I have been plentifully blessed --

by the gentle, loving Fred;

by the crazy and carousing Belle et Bonne Bianca Castafiore;

by the Feline Contingent;

by Brother Bob, Fearless Educator and Grader Boob;

by Brother TW, Lost and Now Found, Long Missed (indeed, TW was the figural centerpiece for my last Thanksgiving -- it now seems like forever since I did *not* know him --

currently my favorite personal illusion!);

by Lale and Adrean, Hilmi and Tina, et al;

by Mother and her struggles this year, pulling through;

by the Carolina folks in absentia, always on my mind and heart;

by Ginny, by Ramak, and yes, by memories of beloved people,

even those who might prefer to spit as I pass by,

(maybe especially those!);

by the talented and caring medicos who keep me going;

by a renewed political energy in the country and

by the hope that Barack Obama will lead us out of the morass;

and I have been blessed by an attentive, loving, and responsive God.

What I never thought would hardly matter?

Academia -- Religion -- and my Reputation

inside of each construct.

Thank you, God, for everything, for I am, in all ways, blessed.

*Oh, and I really appreciate my new pink purse -- but especially the lovely women in my life who encourage me to use it, no matter the occasion!