Beyond Parkour

Damien Walters

Johns Hopkins

It looks like a decision has been made, the first of many over the next week or so.

I will be heading for Johns Hopkins as soon as the arrangements and scheduling can be sorted out.

My stomach is all in a knot but I am sure this trip will result in identifying the little buggers infecting my bones and provide us with a solution to eradicate the offending microbes.

How my insurance will handle this, how Fred et al will handle this -- I dunno. I am too tired to think.

The MDVIP Boutiqueur continues to prove just how invaluable he is. We are meeting next Tuesday to begin planning this adventure.

Cleveland Clinic, Hopkins, Sloan Kettering, Mayo, etc.

I was a mess yesterday. After being shown into an exam room at the Infectious Disease Dood's digs, after vital signs and the promise that someone "will be right with you," I sat there and cried. Not pretty crying, not the kind that can be hidden, oh no -- my sinuses clogged, my eyes nothing more than a mascara smear, the tissue box just out of my reach. (The handkerchief I normally carry had been sacrificed the night before to the cause of feline ear mites.)

"This is too much pain; I can't take it any longer," I told the walls.

When ID Dood's PA arrived, the water works were still in full force. Sniff, cough, cackle, cackle.

Somehow, my body knew we were all at a crossroads.

*Nothing* helpful emerged from the ID meeting held last Wednesday night, not a single workable idea. As she circum-and-cross locuted all over the place, it became clear that there was an expectation that my orthopedic surgeon would continue to slice me open every other month, clear what infection he could expose, until death us do part.

Sniff, cough, cackle, cackle.

As she led me back to the Infusion Center area, she promised to call the ID Dood himself. Oh great exclamations of intense and joyful expectations. Oh! Oh!

I scared the bejesus out of the nurse drawing my labs and changing the PICC line dressing. He was afraid to touch me, even with my sniffed reassurances that most of the pain was coming from my left shoulder.

It doesn't make much sense, but the pain derived from touch (this involves CRPS/RSD) is completely manageable if that touch is firm and fairly constant. That can even be pleasant. (Get your mind out of the gutter.) It's when people think they are soothing you, with light strokes and gentle pats -- *those* ways of touching are murder, like fire, intolerable.

And that darned nurse forgets those little details from week to week.

gentle pat light stroke {murderous thought} gentle pat light stroke {murderous thought} gentle pat light stroke {murderous thought} gentle pat light stroke {murderous thought}

The nurse/pharmacist was behind him, giving me looks of encouragement.

Sniff, cough, cackle, cackle.

About an hour later, the PA dropped back by to tell me that ID Dood has decided that I need "fresh eyes" to look at me from an ID-standpoint. She said the OS and ID Dood were going to put their fat heads together and come up with some referrals and they'd give me a call tomorrow (today). She made mention of a famous orthopod who specializes in the weirder instances of osteomyelitis.

When Fred and I toodled our way home, I wrote the experience up and emailed my dear Boutiqueur, my go-to-guy for things medical.

I took my breakthrough pain meds plus some ibuprofen.

This was The Boutiqueur's response:

La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore,

It's very hard for me to "run the show" with all the specialists at Hospital X. I have talked with both ShoulderMan and ID Dood before and am happy to call them again. You need to understand it's a very difficult problem that we are dealing with and they have most likely never had such a puzzling and "resistant" case before. It's uncharted territory. If Dr. ShoulderMan will not go into the joint again surgically (which I would understand) and Dr. ID Dood feels like he's exhausted all the possible antibiotics, then where does that leave us? Another opinion is certainly an option but remember you have some limitations with which Ortho groups or hospital you can go to due to the previous legal issues. [Due to a previously described Sentinel Event... for which *I* am being blacklisted!] Dr. C. is very well known for his expertise in joint infections but he moved to California last year. One of the other options is going to one of the Speciality Hospitals in another part of the country for an expert opinion. MDVIP has relationships with many of these (i.e. Cleveland Clinic, Hopkins, Sloan Kettering, Mayo, etc). In NY,. there is the best Orthopedic Hospital in the country called the Hospital for Special Surgery. Through MDVIP we have easy access in making referrals and getting appointments with some of the best specialists in the country. I think you may need that. Your insurance would most likely cover the cost of the tests and visits and you would just have to pay your way to get there. Flights are fairly cheap these days but I'm not sure of the lodging. La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, I think you may be at the point that we have to consider something "drastic" like this. Let me know what you think as we'c be happy to initiate the referral and get the ball rolling for you. I'm sure Dr. ShoulderMan and Dr. ID Dood would be in favor of a move such as this. Let me know how you'd like to proceed.

-- The Go-To-Guy Boutiqueur

So it is today now.

How would I like to proceed?

In order to make such a determination, the kitchen floor requires the business end of a mop and the toilet boil wants a scrubbing. Two of four cats need an intense combing, one a serious brushing, and the remaining Little Boy? Never-ending sessions of love, daubing his wounds with gauze.

The clothes piled in the bathroom should be washed, dried, and folded before I can give proper consideration to Medical Tourism.

It was hard for me to trust the orthopedic surgeon who has been caring for me this past year. He has a reputation as one of the best -- but reputations mean diddly to me now. I am a product of the best schools and training, myself, and I know how little I know! The OS who managed to screw up my life back in 2002? The nurses liked to tell me, in response to my aired concerns: "But La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, he went to Hah-vahd!" My current OS? He proves himself by being himself, and he *is* the best. He is straightforward and reliable. He's talented and kind. He has a great staff.

It was hard for me to get to the point of trusting him. I don't want anyone else to operate on me -- he knows the terrain really well now.

The question is not whether or not I am being petulant and contradictory, but rather whether or not I am so petulant and contradictory as to be a real and present danger to the logic necessary to a good decision!

(If anyone out there has insights to share... please do, as I am fresh out.)

The Heimlich Maneuver for Cats

What a way cool moment the felines and I shared early this morning!

Unable to sleep, I was serving up breakfast at 4:30 am and boiling water for lime sugar free jello (to be enhanced by a nice celery dice) -- yes, I *am* an adept multitasker, thank you for noticing.

During a pause in the action, I was reviving myself with a bowl of bran flakes, tootsies stretched toward the huge stone hearth in this, one of Marlinspike Hall's largest kitchens. We keep a fire going year round -- there always seems to be a bit of a chill here, deep deep in the Tête de Hergé.

Something made me look over to the Kitty Chow-Down Area, where I saw Dobby in dire straits. His entire body was convulsing in an attempt to breathe, his paws fighting some invisible enemy, theft of his oxygen -- all without making a sound. Marmy was sitting ramrod straight by his side, looking alarmed. (Yep, that was the extent of her maternal reaction.)

I careened over to poor Dobby, popping a wheelie on the way, hair flying in the breeze of my own speed. I scooped him up, flipped him over, screamed from the pain in my arms and shoulders, and performed a perfect (if I do say so myself) rendition of the Heimlich Maneuver for Cats.

What a sweet moment when a big glob of goo flew out of his mouth--Ptooey! and Splat! -- onto the fridge door.

Marmy went and sniffed it, sashaying her little fluffy butt.

Dobby leapt off my lap and without much of a pause, resumed eating.

Oh -- an update on the condition of Our Gimp, Uncle Kitty Big Balls. The "toe" of his right rear paw was amputated, and the vet also had to take a large bit of the metatarsal. Another abscess spontaneously opened and drained on the thigh of his left rear leg, to go along with the one on his "ankle." He has drains in each leg and a huge bandage (dry on wet) over the operated site.

The Fredster enlisted my help Friday night as aide to the Changing of the Gauze, but had several ADHD moments that made the situation somewhat less than stellar. And so, last night, per his assinine request, I did *nothing* to assist.

And so it was that soon after he began, Uncle Kitty Big Balls sank his sharp little teeth into Fred's big toe -- punctured it top and bottom, and did not extract his little dental tools cleanly, either. Unfortunately, there was almost no bleeding.

And so it was that Fred had to call the local Marcus Welby, MD, drive to the pharmacie and begin a round of Cipro... I think he was supposed to update his tetanus shot, too, but hey! I had no questions to ask, no bright ideas to share -- per his own instructions.

No, I am not happy it happened... just pissed that he has to be so stubborn, to his own detriment. Easier on him, easier on Uncle Kitty Big Balls, and a nice change of pace for me if I even do as little as tuck the little dude under my good arm so that reaching that back leg is less fraught with danger.

Poor little guy, we gave him the last of his pain medication last night -- and he is obviously still in considerable pain this morning, carefully holding that heavily bandaged leg away from all surfaces.

I'll have to recount the tale of my heroism and Dobby's near death experience to him, distract him a little. Even after the Great Toe Attack, it is clear that Uncle K. is a pacifist, a gentle soul.

Lordy, I hope that toe doesn't get infected.

Fred has joined the "BID" antibiotic dosing routine -- at noon and midnight, I am hooked up to vancomycin, Uncle Kitty Big Balls gets his liquid amoxicillen, and now, Fred, himself, has to take his twice-a-day Cipro!

When I find myself in times of trouble...

The thing is, it ought to boggle the mind, but it doesn't anymore. It made me laugh, that's about the extent of my oh-so-shocked reaction.

If you've been paying attention, you know that The Fredster and I have been loading up Ms. Ruby the CR-V a couple of times a week and heading down to the Infectious Disease Dood's Place, just for kicks. And once there, well, it would be rude to donate blood and run, so we usually stay a polite few-to-six hours.

We're almost family, at this point. We've witnessed firings and hirings, flub-ups and triumphs, all from the comfort of the Infusion Center. We even watched President Obama's inauguration there, a crowd of doctors and nurses, aides and techs, secretaries and delivery folk.

Fred even has an intense and personal relationship with their chairs... I think that he sleeps, these days, better when ensconced therein than at home.

Even if you haven't paid attention, you know that I've been feeling increasingly like crapola since my last hospitalization and requisite surgery to replace one clunky shoulder spacer with another, as signs of infection in the joint/humerus continue. See? Give me the slightest opening and I feel compelled to bitch and moan, loudly, and with great feeling. (It's not my fault. I'm sorry.)

The response chez the ID folks has been to steadily urge me to contact my orthopedic surgeon, which I was loathe to do, since Dr. ShoulderMan's response tends to be a surgical one (crazy, huh?). But I finally did contact him yesterday, through his nurse and clinical assistant -- via email.

The response?

"I just spoke to Dr. [ShoulderMan] and he wants you to contact your infectious disease dr. I am so sorry you aren’t feeling good. Let me know what the Infectious Disease dr. says."

MwaaaHaaaaHaaa!

Bless her bones, she is wonderful, as are the surgeon and the PA. I don't think it is avoidance or "the run around." I think they're right, actually. The orthopods have been working like crazy to stay ahead of the infections and to give me a functional skeleton. It may be something of an overstatement, but not in my present frame of mind -- I think they've saved my life a few times over.

The ID folks, on the other hand, have had the luxury of treating me as if I were an intellectual point of dry debate. Many is the time I've been tempted to call out: "Point of order! Point of order!"

We cannot keep doing surgery after surgery -- the risks are clearly too great.

Anyway... I don't know what I am supposed to do. My "concierge" doc, The Boutiqueur, has to stay somewhat on the sidelines, as he doesn't have privileges at the hospital in question -- most of his work and his colleagues are far across town. He has maintained a close telephone connection with everyone and sees me about once a month. But what can he do for me, in this highly specialized situation?

I guess I will keep taking my meds, showing up at my appointments, gritting my teeth through this pain, sweating through these fevers, hooking up to these vancomycin medicine balls, lusting for sleep.

Because who knows where I am supposed to find relief, or go for help when in trouble?

Mwa!
Ha.
Ha?

Hey, maybe this is one of the twisted ways people end up in the ED/ER, where their presence is, predictably, maligned...

As my stepmother used to say: "There ought to be a law!"

The Great Gate of Theleme

The fever is in my eyes this evening -- fecund burning, staring, staring. The felines are fed, Fred is in deep communion with his Important Work, tucked safely away in his office, in the big black chair. When I am not looking, he spins round and round in that big black chair, and goes woooooooo!

You can't fool me.

When febrile, I do the darnedest things. I put dirty clothes in the dryer, thereby cutting my workload in half. I sometimes throw away our flatware. That kind of thing. Oh, and I cry, but the tears are meaningless. Really!

The life of a feverish brain is fascinating. For example, look at what I put by the bed to read this afternoon: Thurber! Rabelais! It is my habit to read several works at once. The principle that guides my choices is the simple requirement that there be dialogue, a measure of synthesis that I hope results in something new (small nod -- and a wink -- to crazy Pound) between my delicate pink ears.

Rabelais' bawdy Gargantua and Pantagruel amuse me at a good quivering belly level, much as James Thurber can send me into ladylike throes of snorting, hooting, and general hilarity.

I am that rare scholar who juxtaposes at will, at whim, for whimsy! Indeed, I am Treasurer of the Local Chapter of Academics for Whimsy. Through me are channeled the elegant guffaws of an early humanist benedictine monk and physician, delicately intertwined with the comic doodles of a comedian of the Common Man, subset urbane (Polite, yes. Polished? Not so much.).

A footnoted Wikipedia entry tells us that:

Thurber had two brothers, William and Robert. Once, while playing a game of William Tell, his brother William shot James in the eye with an arrow.[1]

Now *that* is a factoid begging for a desperate graduate student from the Midwest.

(Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia that anyone can edit! Anyone! Do you not shake your head in wonder? I know I do! Why, I begin to believe we *can* do anything.)

Aw, crap, my head is still shaking.

Anyway, I defy you to make it through The Night the Bed Fell without mirth, merriment, and milk up the nose or to refrain from intoning "choo choo" to Bolenciecwcz, as he struggles with his modes of transportation. It's a universe of self-effacing gentle men chez Thurber. We all know a Walter Mitty. Cough. Sniff. (Okay, so I am sometimes myself a vaguely heroic, altogether inscrutable, brandy-downing, suicidal puppy-biscuit buyer.)

What inspired me to place the sketch, the flip of a wrist short stories alongside something so... well, gargantuan as Gargantua and Pantagruel?

Brow furrowed, I carry my finger down the chapter listings, see How Gargantua, in combing his head, made the great cannon-balls fall out of his hair, laugh out loud, and go on, sick hot brain, sick hot eyes, trying to remember, hoping that dandruff humor is not going to be my answer. How Panurge had a flea in his ear, and forbore to wear any longer his magnificent codpiece. Ar! Still, no...

Ahhh. Here it is, Chapter 54. That little bit of nothing that I'd like at the virtual entrance to this blog, on the tombstone I will have, on a refrigerator magnet, as something slightly oily in the water.

The inscription set upon the great gate of Theleme [Abbey]:

Here enter not vile bigots, hypocrites,

Externally devoted apes, base snites,

Puffed-up, wry-necked beasts, worse than the Huns,

Or Ostrogoths, forerunners of baboons:

Cursed snakes, dissembled varlets, seeming sancts,

Slipshod caffards, beggars pretending wants,

Fat chuffcats, smell-feast knockers, doltish gulls,

Out-strouting cluster-fists, contentious bulls,

Fomenters of divisions and debates,

Elsewhere, not here, make sale of your deceits.

Your filthy trumperies

Stuffed with pernicious lies

(Not worth a bubble),

Would do but trouble

Our earthly paradise,

Your filthy trumperies.

Here enter not attorneys, barristers,

Nor bridle-champing law-practitioners:

Clerks, commissaries, scribes, nor pharisees,

Wilful disturbers of the people’s ease:

Judges, destroyers, with an unjust breath,

Of honest men, like dogs, even unto death.

Your salary is at the gibbet-foot:

Go drink there! for we do not here fly out

On those excessive courses, which may draw

A waiting on your courts by suits in law.

Lawsuits, debates, and wrangling

Hence are exiled, and jangling.

Here we are veryFrolic and merry,

And free from all entangling,

Lawsuits, debates, and wrangling.

Here enter not base pinching usurers,

Pelf-lickers, everlasting gatherers,

Gold-graspers, coin-gripers, gulpers of mists,

Niggish deformed sots, who, though your chests

Vast sums of money should to you afford,

Would ne’ertheless add more unto that hoard,

And yet not be content,—you clunchfist dastards,

Insatiable fiends, and Pluto’s bastards,

Greedy devourers, chichy sneakbill rogues,

Hell-mastiffs gnaw your bones, you ravenous dogs.

You beastly-looking fellows,

Reason doth plainly tell us

That we should not

To you allot

Room here, but at the gallows,

You beastly-looking fellows.

Here enter not fond makers of demurs

In love adventures, peevish, jealous curs,

Sad pensive dotards, raisers of garboils,

Hags, goblins, ghosts, firebrands of household broils,

Nor drunkards, liars, cowards, cheaters, clowns,

Thieves, cannibals, faces o’ercast with frowns,

Nor lazy slugs, envious, covetous,

Nor blockish, cruel, nor too credulous,

—Here mangy, pocky folks shall have no place,

No ugly lusks, nor persons of disgrace.

Grace, honour, praise, delight,

Here sojourn day and night.

Sound bodies lined

With a good mind,

Do here pursue with might

Grace, honour, praise, delight.

Here enter you, and welcome from our hearts,

All noble sparks, endowed with gallant parts.

This is the glorious place, which bravely shall

Afford wherewith to entertain you all.

Were you a thousand, here you shall not want

For anything; for what you’ll ask we’ll grant.

Stay here, you lively, jovial, handsome, brisk,

Gay, witty, frolic, cheerful, merry, frisk,

Spruce, jocund, courteous, furtherers of trades,

And, in a word, all worthy gentle blades.

Blades of heroic breasts

Shall taste here of the feasts,

Both privily

And civilly

Of the celestial guests,

Blades of heroic breasts.

Here enter you, pure, honest, faithful, true

Expounders of the Scriptures old and new.

Whose glosses do not blind our reason, but

Make it to see the clearer, and who shut

Its passages from hatred, avarice,

Pride, factions, covenants, and all sort of vice.

Come, settle here a charitable faith,

Which neighbourly affection nourisheth.

And whose light chaseth all corrupters hence,

Of the blest word, from the aforesaid sense.

The holy sacred Word,

May it always afford

T’ us all in common,

Both man and woman,

A spiritual shield and sword,

The holy sacred Word.

Here enter you all ladies of high birth,

Delicious, stately, charming, full of mirth,

Ingenious, lovely, miniard, proper, fair,

Magnetic, graceful, splendid, pleasant, rare,

Obliging, sprightly, virtuous, young, solacious,

Kind, neat, quick, feat, bright, compt, ripe, choice, dear, precious.

Alluring, courtly, comely, fine, complete,

Wise, personable, ravishing, and sweet,

Come joys enjoy.

The Lord celestial

Hath given enough wherewith to please us all.

Gold give us,

God forgive us,

And from all woes relieve us;

That we the treasure

May reap of pleasure,

And shun whate’er is grievous,

Gold give us,

God forgive us.

Over on Amazon.com, I come across Nelson Richardson's Listmania! List, entitled "A Shelf from Theleme Abbey." Guess what Nelson Richardson says of his Listmania! List? He says:

"Books have lineages. I like to read ancestors and descendants, slowly and repeatedly, going up and down the chain through time."

There's always already someone wonderful out there, ready to save my butt.

Thurber and Rabelais: Separated at Birth?

Carry me back to old Valhalla...

Behaving My Way To Happiness

I feel absolutely ill this morning, and hence, this may be the day for me to give the surgeon a call. The Infectious Disease PA thinks I have already done this... but I've been too afraid. Stupid? Sure. But that's my stupid reality! My best option may be to email his nurse and lay it out for her, see if it's okay to wait until June 9.



Dick Cheney going "head-to-head" with Obama in dueling speeches on the "war" on terror? There are so many things that are just plain wrong with this scenario -- I don't even want to get started. Cheney appears delusional to me. Specifically in terms of "grandeur."



Guantanamo -- I support Obama's plan to close the effing place down, but I understand the Congress' response that a clear end game needs to be posited first. Do I think that is really the problem with passing the bill clearing the needed bucks for the much overdue eviction? No. It seems to be a case of "not-in-my-backyard." As in: the remaining prisoners need housing but them raghead terrorists aren't gonna live in my state, no sir. Earlier, as in last week, Dems were upset that Obama intended to continue using the military judicial system in some of the more clearly hardcore cases. Too harsh, too much a continuation of failed policy. That's a heck of a disconnect.



"Disconnect." One of the newly bandied-about terms we've all come to love. The old switcheroo from verb to noun that hip English-speakers love to effect.



My Infectious Disease Dood presented my case to a group of ID doctors last night. I fully expect to arrive at his office, my second home, and find a cure a-waiting. Something like a shot of Cure-All in the booty to resolve all ills.



But Madame! Were you not just recently at the Infectious Disease Dood's place? Why are you going back for the third time in a freaking week?



Because the Uber They phoned yesterday to say that my labs from Monday are all wacky and they desire more blood.



After I donate, we are going to pick up the brave and singular Uncle Kitty Big Balls, who ended up having major surgery yesterday, losing not just a "toe," but also about half of the associated metatarsal. Puss, diseased bone... apparently, he's quite the little copy cat.



I don't regret spending money to help my animals regain their health, but in the space of two weeks, this wee one has incurred a small fortune in vet bills. We didn't even ask how much this latest surgery will be. Oh, and she found yet another abscess on one of his back legs. It is clear that The Fredster took his infected self in just in the nick of time.



Drew Peterson. No celebrity would be the best response -- no Dr. Phil Chase for Ratings -- no Entertainment Tonight. Just put the man under the jail... forever.



Well, I have to wake up my beloved chauffeur in a few minutes, and I'd best use that time to wash up, get dressed, make him some café and whole wheat toast. The toast is a compromise. While I was in the hospital, he started an awful trend in breakfast food -- two bologna sandwiches. I was shocked to even find that stuff in my fridge. I am not sure what he was putting on the bread, either -- I suspect mayonnaise. Ugh. {waves of nausea}



Ah, it is 8:36 am and my temp is already 99.9. MwaHaHa! Oh, God, what to do when vancomycin doesn't work?



Okay, shaking it off. Behaving my way to happiness. Be the change I wish so to see. Later, Doods and Dudettes.



Oh... please enjoy this latest photo that I have pilfered from one of TW's blogs. He is a canyon man, a lovely man, and sometimes a sister just needs a brother. What drew me were the tonal qualities. It fairly hums.




TW captions the series of images which includes this one with:

I am
fated
to journey
hand in hand
with my
strange heroes
and to survey
the surging
immensity
of life,
to survey it
through
the laughter
that all
can see
and through
the tears
unseen
and unknown
by anyone.
--Nikolai Gogol
(1809--1852)

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.

The Continuing Saga of Uncle Kitty Big Balls

Bless the little guy's bones.

The cat that Fred rescued -- whom we still call "Little Boy" or, at times, "Pickle Head," and occasionally, "Uncle Kitty Big Balls" -- is going to have one of his toes amputated tomorrow. Poor thing, he's been through the ringer.

We've faithfully administered antibiotics (he gets his when I get mine), washed and soaked his various wounds in betadine solutions, and applied constant love and affection, served up with mounds, piles, platters of food.

I'm not terribly happy with the vet, who never bothered to x-ray this rear paw -- the "thumb" of which was clearly dislocated, at best, and abscessed, at worst. Okay, so my parameters are off -- because today, she doesn't know what is at work in Little Boy Pickle Headed Big Balls -- in fact, she wants to biopsy the leg.

I am proud of Fred for stepping up when he did to adopt L'il Big Balls -- even if it did feel ever so slightly manipulative as I lay in the freaking ICU, struggling to breathe... No, I was doing well at the time and knew already how much he identified with the day-to-day struggles of this beat-up cat.

I mean, he looks rough.

Scruffy as all get out, shaved by an apparently shaky-handed vet tech, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Bill the Cat. Initially, we thought his bite wound to that rear paw was improving but over the last few days, it clearly pains him to put weight on the leg, and the various inroads continued to bleed after soaking -- and there is also considerable swelling. What has been confusing is the improvement in his overall condition, probably just the result of being fed regularly, and loved generously. Last night, we watched him limping around and decided to take him back to the vet for the fifth visit in two weeks.

So think a good thought for the little guy. How he has maintained such a sweet spirit while living as a stray in a fairly unfriendly [to cats] area, we dunno.

Me? Thanks for asking! I am almost up to 101 this afternoon, have incredible pain in the left shoulder -- the spacer is very clunky and I can hear and feel it grinding. There is pain simply to touch, and the whole area wants to explode. I am waiting to hear about yesterday's labs.

And I am extremely depressed.

The ID PA yesterday asked me if I wanted to go to Mayo.

My "case" is being presented tomorrow night.

God, I am depressed. Would that I had Uncle Kitty Big Ball's steadiness.

Lunge! Riposte! Touché!

The Manor is in disarray; Marlinspike Hall calls out for my domestic ministrations!

La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, Fred, and the (now) *four* felines -- Little Boy, Marmy, Dobby, and Sam-I-Am -- have all adopted the feckless stare of the spiritless.

(Little Boy is Marmy's brother, and has been living as a stray for the past two years. Uncle to Dobby, he recently attached himself to the lawn around the manor moat, and Fred made a heartfelt appeal to adopt him into the inner circle once his various wounds became apparent. Initially known as Uncle Kitty Big Balls, the boy's tininess inspired a new moniker once his hopelessly matted fur was shaved off by the vet, and... well, once those Big Balls were, themselves, history.)

Little Boy shall hopefully have a name soon. He enjoys relative immunity at the moment, being in such rough physical shape. That is, the fact that he poops with great pomp after every meal in a spot that he relates to The Fredster... this fact is met with forbearance, good humour, paper towels, and multiple cleansers. Once he's named and physically fit? He'd best be pooping with great pomp in one of the containers specifically designed for that purpose.

I've never run across any actual surviving implement, written description, or fine art depiction of what was used in the Middle Ages or the Renaissance to contain cat poop and pee, although why I expect the amenities to be more hygienic than the facilities used by their human counterparts is just basic denial on my part.

Surely the Age of Enlightenment had something to rival, say, the CatGenie, "[t]he only automatic cat box that flushes waste away and, like a cat, washes itself clean."

My working theory is that Little Boy understands the concept of the litter box and will be perfectly compliant once his paws heal. He has a puncture wound on his left rear paw, and a huge abscess on his right rear leg. It cannot feel good to put those tender feet into litter.



Poor little guy. Despite the enormous amounts of food that he is downing, he has lost more weight, something that he can ill afford to do. Obviously a valiant soul, he has a wonderful, loving spirit despite an obvious history of abuse. He looks not unlike Bill the Cat (and on a bad day,too). I believe that when his hair grows back and his wounds disappear and he puts on some weight -- the boy is gonna be the stunning, dominant one among the felines. As it is, he basically suctions up any food within his sight: He chows down what is rightfully his, then elbows Sammy out of the way, eats Sammy's food, meows a few times, then scrambles to the kitchen where he swipes dry kibble from Marmy and The Dobster. And still, he lost a few ounces last week. The vet opines that it is due to fever / dehydration. Getting well is a rough workout.

Did I mention that he loves me? Can't fault him for that.

He kept me company through the night -- last night -- and is now catching up on his rest, though he wakes frequently to redistribute his weight. Those Areas of Ouch are nothing to sniff at. In fact, I wonder why the vet doesn't give him something, even something topical, for the pain.

My own Areas of Ouch, the oft-mentioned World of Pain? My pain management doctor -- who dumped my care to his Nurse Practitioner last year -- is offering me Dilaudid during this period of increased acute pain. I said "no thanks" initially but after nights like this past one? Bring it on. If I understand correctly, the Dilaudid will replace Endocet as the short-acting pain killer for breakthrough problems, leaving Methadone in place for the long-acting agent. Do I sound like a druggie? Fret not. A dedicated druggie, a real addict? They'd not be willing to feel the pain with which I live, with which I dance, against which I feint the parry.

The language of swordplay seems à propos.

Little Boy and I, we are StudMuffins in the battle against pain. StudMuffins, I say.

And so, the Manor will remain in disarray for a good spell longer -- and my domestic ministrations confined to intense cuddling sessions -- wounded cat, wounded person, perhaps, in this beginning. But in our ending?

SnuggleBunny to SnuggleBunny!
Lunge! Riposte! Touché!

Post Script: I decided against switching to Dilaudid.
1. I need to be able to assess this pain as acurately as possible. So let's undertreat it!
2. The memory of not being able to breathe is still fresh. I don't want to risk depressing my respirations. (Although there are moments -- known here at Marlinspike Hall as "Shoot-Me-In-The-Head Moments" -- when I am ready to stop breathing.)
3. I CANNOT SIT IN THE CAR FOR THE RIDE TO AND FRO! It just hurts too much. How is that for insane logic? It hurts too much to go get additional pain medication...

Pelosi's Tell

Nancy Pelosi, like everyone, has a tell: her left eyelid twitches when she's weaving her particular tangled webs.

I'd love to point out that the matter hardly matters, but the matter matters. It's the transparency thing, the consistency thing.

I don't doubt that, as a ranking member of the Intelligence Committee back in 2002-3, she regularly encountered much top secret information swirling round regarding terrorism intel and attended meetings during which she was briefed on torture policy. I don't doubt that trying to juggle what should be public now versus what we thought needed secrecy then -- is no easy task.

I'd love to say it is a simple matter of telling the truth, but it is not. In our favorite version of the world, of course, it would be. Still, the question she is being asked -- did she know about the use of waterboarding? -- shouldn't require the invention of yet more revisionist history. While not simple, it's not complicated either.

I support President Obama, and, as an extension, the Democratic Party, in large part because he seems to "get" that the U.S. citizenry has been treated like mental midgets for a long time, and that it is time to exercise all those little grey cells atrophied by studied disuse.

In other words: I can handle the details, even without a spin. I can figure out how information flows, and how its flow is sometimes impeded by extraordinary circumstances. But it is up to me and my various moral codes to decide what Pelosi's apparent knowledge of the actual use of waterboarding requires of her.

It does not require the twitching of an eye.

A small part of me is glad that she is such a terrible liar.

UPDATE: 14 May 2009

Under fire from Republicans for what she knew about harsh questioning of terror detainees, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi on Thursday acknowledged that she had learned in 2003 that the C.I.A. had subjected suspects to waterboarding, but she asserted that the agency had misled Congress about its techniques.

At a tense press conference, Ms. Pelosi said for the first time that a staff member alerted her in February 2003 that top lawmakers on the House Intelligence Committee had been briefed on the use of tough interrogation methods on terror suspects.

But she said the fact that she did not speak out at the time due to secrecy rules did not make her complicit in any abuse of detainees. She accused the C.I.A. and Bush administration of lying to Congress about what was actually transpiring with the detainees.

“I am saying that the C.I.A. was misleading the Congress and at the same time the administration was misleading the Congress on weapons of mass destruction,” Ms. Pelosi said.

Ms. Pelosi said she was told at that briefing that waterboarding, one of the most controversial of the harsh techniques employed, was not being used.

The C.I.A., reacting to Ms. Pelosi’s remarks, said that agency records declassified last week and cited by congressional Republicans show that Ms. Pelosi had taken part in a September 2002 briefing on interrogation techniques was “true to the language in the Agency’s records.”

A tempest in a teapot, but only if, in her transparency, she can refrain from shrill tits and grating tats.

Rock me on the water

From American Idyll, TW's blog dedicated to the river and the canyon, to his loves. There is no rhyme or reason to *my* selections below -- whereas he carefully presents his pictures, narrates them, knows where they're from.

Water drove me.

It gives, it's velvet; It endures, it grinds us down, rock to silt. It blesses and tickles and soothes us. It swirls and does what it wants, following and breaking the rules.

I miss him, not knowing him.
(Also, every other permutation.)

Oh people, look around you
The signs are everywhere
You've left it for somebody other than you
To be the one to care
You're lost inside your houses
There's no time to find you now
Your walls are burning and your towers are turning
I'm going to leave you here and try to get down to the sea somehow

The road is filled with homeless souls
Every woman, child and man
Who have no idea where they will go
But they'll help you if they can
Now everyone must have some thought
That's going to pull them through somehow
Well the fires are raging hotter and hotter
But the sisters of the sun are going to rock me on the water now

Rock me on the water
Sister will you soothe my fevered brow
Rock me on the water
I'll get down to the sea somehow

Oh people, look among you
It's there your hope must lie
There's a sea bird above you
Gliding in one place like Jesus in the sky
We all must do the best we can
And then hang on to that Gospel plow
When my life is over, I'm going to stand before the Father
But the sisters of the sun are going to rock me on the water now

Rock me on the water
Sister will you soothe my fevered brow
Rock me on the water, maybe I'll remember
Maybe I'll remember how
Rock me on the water
The wind is with me now
So rock me on the water
I'll get down to the sea somehow

--Jackson Browne, Rock Me On The Water

THE HOSPITAL BILL: 4 nights/5 days at the spa

MED-SUR-GY/PVT - 1,560.00
ICU - 4,010.00
PHARMACY - 7,157.40
IV SOLUTIONS - 2,056.00
PHARMACY OTHER - 1,454.25
IV THERAPY - 55.00
MED/SURG SUPPLIES - 1,697.00
NON STERILE SUPPLY - 13.00
STERILE SUPPLIES - 431.00
IMPLANTS - 2,948.00
LABORATORY - 120.00
CHEMISTRY - 3,624.00
IMMUNOLOGY - 503.00
HEMATOLOGY - 851.00
BACTERIOLOGY/MICRO - 1,563.00
HISTOLOGY - 1,119.00
RADIOLOGY - 293.00
DX X-RAY/CHEST - 1,800.00
CT SCAN/HEAD - 1,862.00
CT SCAN/BODY - 2,907.00
OR SERVICES - 11,035.00
ANESTHESIA - 2,243.00
BLOOD STORAGE AND PROCESS - 1,272.00
RESPIRATORY SERVICES - 2,945.00
CARDIOLOGY - 1,444.00
DRUGS/DETAIL CODE - 1,296.50
RECOVERY ROOM - 3,239.00
EKG/ECG - 456.00
EEG - 569

TOTAL CHARGES - $60,523.15
TOTAL PAYMENTS/ADJUSTMENTS - 0.00

Pain, Fever, Infection -- Oh My!

I'm depressed. And febrile. And in beaucoup pain.

We spent over three hours at the ID doc's posh place.

He wants me to do another full 6 week course of vancomycin, so we will carry on with it. Every 12 hours. No matter that we don't know what we're treating.

But you can't argue with explosive, virulent, stanky pus in zee bones!

I feel very sick, kind of afraid. I expressed this and was told that fear was appropriate.

He is going to do a "search of the literature." I almost started laughing-crying. He's also going to get ideas from some sort of ID doctor meeting of such-folk citywide.

Woo.
Hoo.

My poor darling Fred is so tired. I have become nothing less than a burden (replete with explosive, virulent, and stanky, stanky pus in zee bones). What every man wants in a woman.

Hands Down

Ick Cheney, a walking, talking turdescent worm. Rush Limbaugh? Why should I break a sweat when Margaret and Helen are on the case?

Oops, is my microphone on? Did I say that out loud? (No, Wanda Sykes did not go too far. She barely touched the surface... and I hope she was wearing gloves.)

I thought Obama was fairly funny at the White House Press Corps thingy. Cheney's memoirs are tentatively titled "How to Shoot Friends and Interrogate People." Okay, so I didn't bust a gut laughing or snort milk up my nose. Someone needs to explain to the President that real humor requires incongruity.

Ever reticent, Helen Philpot notes: "These morons have nothing left to offer. There are no solutions for peace. Instead we must always be ready for war. There are no solutions for poverty, instead we must carefully protect the wealth of the wealthy. There are no solutions for the environment, instead we must simply put our heads in the sand and pretend that life goes on forever – unchanging and without consequence. No wonder these guys look bloated and constipated. They’re full of shit, and lots of it."

Why don't we all just relax? Have a second cup of coffee, toast an english muffin. Treat the cat's ear mites.

Laughter is, indeed, the best medicine. It turns out that my O2 saturation rises into the proper 90s when I laugh! Here are some clips that ought to oxygenate your brain, too! Colbert at the 2006 White House Correspondents Dinner. (This is how it is done. Obama, Sykes -- take note.)