The Cash Cow Blues

Dear Readers:

It's Sunday, and I'm engaged in quiet rebellion.  In lieu of Priests for Equality's The Inclusive Bible: The First Egalitarian Translation, I just read Wallace Steven's Sunday Morning.  "Complacencies of the peignoir" and so on, an elegant paganism.  Today, the poem, like coffee and oranges, is compensation enough for imagined losses; The general flight of generic birds provides enough permanence to sustain the necessary fiction.

Oops.  Still there?

Typing is difficult.  Using the shift key, inserting accented vowels, fending off cat paws -- all these things, though, force me to use my left hand, now ice cold, withered, and tad bit purplish. In this precise moment, I am having no spasm, anywhere.  Were my head clear of fuzz, this instant could be categorized as phenomenal.

Since, however, my brain is encased in spidery filament, I will just do what I set out to do -- cobble together a few of the details that led to my recent downfall, in particular, the role of honesty and fear of litigation in the practice of medicine.  Let's be very particular and insist on the specificity of January 31, 2012, the day before I ended up in ICU.

It wasn't the surgery that occupied me.  It wasn't pain, even, or at least not my normal pain.  It was all about those bleeping spasms, those crushing and twisting events that put my experience of CRPS on a new level of fear.  Terror.

If you've been a Dear Reader for any length of time, you know that I'm defenseless against this permutation of CRPS.  The only measure deemed effective against this dystonia/movement disorder involves the drug baclofen.  People with CRPS and severe spasm usually cannot get sufficient amounts of baclofen without depressing respirations, etc., so the party line is that administration of baclofen via a catheter inserted into the spine is the best option.  Large doses can be given without the accumulation of deadly side effects.  Because I currently have infection assumed to be caused by implanted materials, and because my spine is riddled with microfractures due to osteonecrosis, the intrathecal approach isn't appropriate.

Which leaves me you know where and without a paddle.

I am a cash cow for Dr. PainManagement Dude.  I haven't seen him in 2-3 years.  Instead, I see one of his Nurse Practitioners or Physician Assistants for "pharmaceutical management."  Most of that time, I saw A, a wonderful NP who was mostly up to date on trends within CRPS treatments and research.  She pointed me in the direction of the sub-anesthetic ketamine experiment last year.  She left right after that, and was replaced by M, who left, and was replaced by another NP whom I had only seen once.  

Dr. PainManagement Dude told me early on in our relationship that there was no hope for me, no treatments left to try.  The more I tried, the more disgusted he seemed to be.  Finally, I learned to just show up monthly, grovel, pay my bills, and stifle any stray flares of optimism.

But on 31 January, I needed his help.  I had used and overused the brains and opinions of my very smart group of docs, and most everyone seemed to think that PainManagement Dude might hold the key to successful use of baclofen.

So I wrote him:

Dr. PainManagement Dude --

Hi -- Hope you are well!

I had my left shoulder prosthesis removed and a temporary antibiotic-laced spacer put in -- last week, by Dr. ShoulderMan at The Lone Alp Hospital (in southern Tête de Hergé).  This is a battle we've been waging, without much success, for three+ years now.  I am getting awesome care by everyone -- your office, Dr. MDVIP Go-to-Guy, and, of course, Dr. ShoulderMan.

In the course of all this, however, CRPS kept getting worse.  I think I have tried everything available in this area, and traveling just seems impossible now.  There remains a chance that I will give it one more go, if this shoulder infection problem gets solved, with Dr. Scwartzman at Drexel, but it will be years from now, based on his schedule/demand.  My hope has been that if the infection/inflammation could be "cured," then my pain levels would go down, not just in my arms, but overall. I still think that may happen.

It has taken me this long to understand how truly difficult CRPS is to treat.  I am slow on the uptake!

These are the things I need to ask you about.  Please excuse the more basic ones.  I am avoiding the phone because the spasm/pain situation makes it a waste of time for retaining any information [also, I tend to scream without warning]:

Which PA/NP is treating me?  I was so used to A, then adjusted to M, and now cannot remember whom I saw last, cannot find my paperwork. She was great, but who was she!?  [I can see now that this reads as a criticism, but I swear, Dear Readers, that I simply needed a name.]

I need some flexibility in scheduling with your office.  You all have been very accommodating, but I know a new "provider" may not be comfortable starting off that way.  Fred is having to take me to Dr. InfectiousDiseaseDude's office 2-3 times a week for blood work and dressing changes, on top of regular "stuff," plus he administers the Vancomycin by PICC line.  We're exhausted.  Anything anyone can do to reduce stress will be appreciated.  Every Monday and Thursday, we will have to be out and about until roughly 11 am, so is there someone we could see at your office between 12:45 and 2:00 pm?  If not, we'll figure it out...

The medication situation:  I have enough methadone (10 mg tablets, though, that I break in half) and endocet for about 3 weeks, enough amitriptyline for a few months, but whether I've enough baclofen is anyone's guess, as my need is rapidly changing. Dr. MDVIP Go-to-Guy has been prescribing it through my mail order pharmacy, Medco.  I have had to take more endocet and baclofen than usual in the past two weeks but am planning to taper back over the coming week. [I am annoyingly honest with my health care providers.  A few appreciate it;  Most cringe.]

SPASMS: In CRPS, I don't know what doctors call them -- spasms, cramps, dystonia, WHATEVER! I cannot tolerate them at their current intensity and frequency. You probably hear this all the time, but I did not know it could get like this. This is a whole new animal... Right now, I am at my "calmest" point in a week, and the pain with each spasm -- now in my hands (they flinch, involuntarily[?], about every 20 seconds) -- shoots up to 8-9/10, then down to my usual 5-7/10. Both legs can be involved at the same time, to the extent that my foot is pulled toward my head, my hamstring is pulled in a different direction, and now even my left hip joint is involved. The last round of that began at 8 pm and did not decrease enough to make any difference until around 9 this morning.  They spasmed throughout the day.  I had what seems to me a lot of baclofen already, buteven that, obviously, did not work.  I want to take as little as is necessary to relieve this horrid pain.   I think I will need both a short term and a long term solution, unfortunately.  Intrathecal baclofen is the usual long term approach but that probably isn't a good idea in someone already fighting an infection, plus... I just don't want it...

 

I am sure the correct response is to tell me to "come in to the office." I hope there is an alternative.

Thank you so much for "fielding" this email! I am trying to stay organized but it's hard.  Please tell me what is not clear and I will try to answer more succinctly.

I did not receive a reply from Dr. PainManagement Dude.  Instead, I got this:

Hi XXXXXXXXXX,

I was the nurse practitioner you saw at your last visit. It was good to meet you!
Please discuss with Dr MDVIP Go-to-Guy the amount of baclofen you can take safely and what else can be done to treat the spasms.
We require everyone on narcotic pain medications to come visit monthly for medication refills, so please make an appointment before you run out of medication. I have asked B from our office to call you about an appointment.
Have A Good Week,


ButterMouth, ANP

"Have a good week"!?  If only one of us had known how the week/month was about to unfold...
Proof of my capacity to "zip it," evidence of my claims of concision?  Here's my response to ButterMouth:

Hi ButterMouth,


It was good to meet you, too.


Thanks for your response.


XXXXXXXXXX

To any medicos out there:  Please allow your patients to be honest in their communications with you.  Please don't see legal issues under every rock, something sinister behind every inquiry.  Easy for me to say, I know, but then, whose blog is it, anyway?

When a person begs for help, please help.

February 1, 2012 proved to be a "Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day," in small part due to PainManagement Dude's studied non-responsiveness.  Shoot, he probably could not have changed the outcome... but I might have felt less abandoned, safer, might have had a little hope.

What worries him so about having a medical opinion, a suggestion, a possible way to proceed? Did he fear that his response might be posted on my blog?

Ridiculous!

Specialists

it's been a difficult day.

on the other hand, burly firemen and wise-acre EMTs did not traipse across my freshly mopped floors, and no one told me the doctor on call had to approve the benadryl capsule i needed for a dire case of itching.  when there was despair -- somewhere around 1:58 pm -- there were also three cats and sunshine.

the wound care nurse came and provided a fast and efficient assessment and dressing change.  like me, like the wound care team at the LTAC, he is reluctant to reapply the wound vac -- it is healing well on its own. he's gonna voice his opinion to th doc on monday.

i don't need another machine to trip me up or more wire/cords to touch my arms or legs..

i'm feeling some anger.

today's amusing anecdote?  the three conscious encounters with the hospitalist who admitted me to the ICU from the emergency department -- obviously, she and i met while i was unconscious. how rude of me.

first encounter:  "well, hello!  you are the lovely lady with the two beautiful lovely daughters who came to my emergency room last weekend...oh! what is wrong with these legs?" [reaches out... and yes, grabs one.]

second encounter:  "well, hello!  did we get you set up with a cpap machine?  when is your cardiologist coming to see you so we can order that test?" [don't ask me!  don't use cpap, didn't know why my cardiologist should even be consulted.  so i continued eating a yogurt...]

third encounter:  this was the day i saved my own life.  in the midst of extreme muddle, it occurred to me to doublecheck on my "usual" meds, especially corticosteroids, as i have adrenal insufficiency.  turns out she'd discontinued ALL my meds.  no steroids for 6 days, shining a light on my increasing weakness, confusion, etc. this despite a duly delivered medication list, a medical alert necklace, and the presence of fred.  also, i'd just had surgery there a week earlier -- one of seven shoulder operations in the last 3 years.  in other words, you'd have to be willful in your ignorance NOT to know what meds i need.  she  cruised in after the nurse paged her in a panic, offering me this explanation:  "i didn't do that!"  panicked eyes.  never saw her again.

"the lovely lady with the two beautiful lovely daughters" would've been more understanding, i am sure. and sometimes i do miss my cardiologist -- he once told me that i'd never die so long as he was caring for me.

ah, specialists!

To My MDVIP Go-to-Guy and His Nurse Sidekick

where the wild roses grow by Marco Heisler

rough strife

howdy hi, there, buckaroos!

taking wednesday as reference point, some things are better and nothing is worse, so i'm declaring today a holiday.

when i shut my eyes last night, i was afraid.  my body was sending conflicting signals. doom doom THUD doom doom THUD pulsed my temples.  desperate for a cool cloth, or several, the terror of trying to stand up overruled all desire.  i made myself cry to release tension, then i slept.

the home-based wound care service hasn't happened yet and forms the basis of my anxiety of the moment.  i am employing the tried-and-true method of doing something to trump the nihilism of worry.  note that something does not entirely mean anything.

don't fall for corporate preciosity, dear buckaroos. at the LTAC [long term acute care], the reason they were stringing me along and refusing to discharge moi to marlinspike hall involved convoluted difficulties in arranging for wound care nurses to visit the manor.  insurance minutiae, complicated machinery, documents, manuals... i expected to hear "Best Practices" at any moment...

i was cowed by the evidence of the heroic effort being made on my behalf, but against the good judgment of the best medical minds housed within that five-floored, modular facility.

a plucky social worker, however, let slip that the problem involved the one home health agency with which the LTAC was contracted:  "the guy who does wound care is on vacation."

and so it was that i roared, and after roaring, left.

my MDVIP go-to-guy and his able sidekick had offered to help arrange for home health services once i flew the coop.  they're wonderful and they mean well... by which i mean, of course, that the first company they called didn't take my insurance -- and they didn't think to ask.  we live in different worlds, we do.  so, bushy-eyed and bright-tailed, i was up at 4 am yesterday, in anticipation of an "intake assessment" by wound management.

i ended up carefully rewetting the gauze crammed in the gaping maw of the incision... and blithely mouthing schtuff about sufficient unto the day, not borrowing trouble, sparrows, and lilies.

we've made progress today, but it's 3 something on a friday, when even the highways of tête de hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) can cause traffic headaches.

there was a fair amount of drainage, but it looked like innocent blood, and did not smell.  it itched like a mofo, but it did not smell.

with the exception of cramming gauze into the aforementioned gaping maw, i just copied the work of the LTAC's wound care specialist.  i was a nervous wreck.  i engaged in more negative self-talk than in the whole previous week.

maybe i'll get some help over the weekend.  if i infect this wound somehow, i will never forgive myself.  [yay! there is an agency wound care nurse coming tomorrow morning!]

the spasms returned, but the pain is less than it would be were i still trapped by a hospital bed, complete with rails, a bed frame,and a flying trapeze...

i need to rest now.  various sweetie-pies have told me that things get better after periods of rough strife*.

* i love lynne sharon schwartz... and recommend her novel, rough strife.  better than that, though?  disturbances in the field...

*To his Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell

[....]

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may;

And now, like am'rous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour,

Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.

Let us roll all our strength, and all

Our sweetness, up into one ball;

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run. 

i am home

i'm home.

i signed out "against medical advice" after being carted by ambulance from the effed-up hospital to the effed-up LTAC facility [a nursing home in disguise].

many long and funny stories about such nether worlds are queuing up for future blog post status.

a total of 26 days in hospital, ICU, LTAC.  a wound care service arriving early in the morning, since to make my escape, i had to force the disconnection of my gaping shoulder wound from its pal, the "wound vac."

i had a second surgery on feb 13 [correcting a boo-boo from the more major one on jan 23] and the decision was made to hook me up to an oreck...

don't anyone dare tsk-tsk me over ducking out AMA -- trust me, i was getting weaker and more spastic by the hour.  there were people on my side -- notably the doctor, the floor manager, the social worker -- but they cannot change by fiat the ignorance [wielded on my legs like billy clubs] that reigns among their staff.

my favorite RN? i asked her to please look up CRPS.  she snapped, "i will not!"

and then told me she was going to have the doctors "evaluate [my] legs, 'cause that ain't right!"

so... god bless us all, be kind to one another, but take care of yourself when no one else will.

i'm gonna take it verrrryyyyy slow for a good bit.

but i am home.

Postoperative Life With CRPS: A Nature Morte [video]

In what is increasingly a shocking bit of news: I am still here.

Here's a rough video that proves the point [rough on the eyes and the ears, rough-hewn, and myriad other roughness].

As I feel held hostage by CRPS / RSD, I probably ought to have forced my swollen, inflamed, and utterly wretched dough-thingies hanging off of my bruised forearms... WAIT! Hands, they're called hands!

Right! So I should've held a newspaper in my... *hands*, today's headlines and date prominently displayed. For my next trick, I could hold up a card bearing my CRPS Kidnapper Demands -- maybe between the constantly flexing, flexing toes of my left, my left foot.

As a blogger, one of my first goals was to intelligently work My Left Foot into a post. Seamlessly. Et avec panache, du style [d'un style incomparable, même].

Fait accompli. Also:  Après nous, le déluge!  Much more apt.

Programming detail: At the time of filming, I had banished an exhausted but cutely cross-eyed Fred and the pink-boaed, broad-toed Bianca Castafiore from our regally appointed apartments here in Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs). Of The Feline Contingent, only Dobby deigned to stick around. And he was already regretting it.

To my dedicated politicos:  I had a rare lucid moment at the :50 mark, at which time my eye was drawn to a postcard featuring President Obama, causing me to mutter something about distinguishing my gratitude to him for life, but perhaps not so much for quality of life.  {Wink, wink, finger aside the nose}

NOTE: If you are newly diagnosed with CRPS/RSD, the state of my body is in no way predictive of what your body will do. Shoot, Dear Soul, you are probably going to be cured soon -- get yourself to an experienced neurologist! The spectrum is broad, is all I'm saying...

All Through The Night

This post has a soundtrack, courtesy of Ms. Lauper:



An unlikely pairing of two phrases got me through the night: Sí se puede and Work the problem.

Sí se puede has multiple derivations, of course, but is mostly driven -- at least here at Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) -- by President Obama's use of it as a candidate, in a concession speech after losing the New Hampshire primary to Hilary Clinton.  It won me over then, and it comforts me now.

I still use, however, my beautiful blue Hillary for President water bottle. I also have a Teachers for Hillary tee shirt, also a predominantly beautiful and democratic blue. [Leave my sentence alone.]

I share certain proclivities with our current Secretary of State.



Anyway, sí se puede figured a prominent foreground for me, as I lay screaming and moaning the names of God, all through the night.

Remarks of Senator Barack Obama - New Hampshire Primary
Tuesday, January 8th, 2008
Nashua, New Hampshire


I want to congratulate Senator Clinton on a hard-fought victory here in New Hampshire.


A few weeks ago, no one imagined that we'd have accomplished what we did here tonight. For most of this campaign, we were far behind, and we always knew our climb would be steep. But in record numbers, you came out and spoke up for change. And with your voices and your votes, you made it clear that at this moment – in this election – there is something happening in America.


There is something happening when men and women in Des Moines and Davenport; in Lebanon and Concord come out in the snows of January to wait in lines that stretch block after block because they believe in what this country can be.


There is something happening when Americans who are young in age and in spirit – who have never before participated in politics – turn out in numbers we've never seen because they know in their hearts that this time must be different.


There is something happening when people vote not just for the party they belong to but the hopes they hold in common – that whether we are rich or poor; black or white; Latino or Asian; whether we hail from Iowa or New Hampshire, Nevada or South Carolina, we are ready to take this country in a fundamentally new direction. That is what's happening in America right now. Change is what's happening in America.


You can be the new majority who can lead this nation out of a long political darkness – Democrats, Independents and Republicans who are tired of the division and distraction that has clouded Washington; who know that we can disagree without being disagreeable; who understand that if we mobilize our voices to challenge the money and influence that's stood in our way and challenge ourselves to reach for something better, there's no problem we can't solve – no destiny we cannot fulfill.


Our new American majority can end the outrage of unaffordable, unavailable health care in our time. We can bring doctors and patients; workers and businesses, Democrats and Republicans together; and we can tell the drug and insurance industry that while they'll get a seat at the table, they don't get to buy every chair. Not this time. Not now. Our new majority can end the tax breaks for corporations that ship our jobs overseas and put a middle-class tax cut into the pockets of the working Americans who deserve it.


We can stop sending our children to schools with corridors of shame and start putting them on a pathway to success. We can stop talking about how great teachers are and start rewarding them for their greatness. We can do this with our new majority.


We can harness the ingenuity of farmers and scientists; citizens and entrepreneurs to free this nation from the tyranny of oil and save our planet from a point of no return. And when I am President, we will end this war in Iraq and bring our troops home; we will finish the job against al Qaeda in Afghanistan; we will care for our veterans; we will restore our moral standing in the world; and we will never use 9/11 as a way to scare up votes, because it is not a tactic to win an election, it is a challenge that should unite America and the world against the common threats of the twenty-first century: terrorism and nuclear weapons; climate change and poverty; genocide and disease.


All of the candidates in this race share these goals. All have good ideas. And all are patriots who serve this country honorably.


But the reason our campaign has always been different is because it's not just about what I will do as President, it's also about what you, the people who love this country, can do to change it.


That's why tonight belongs to you.


It belongs to the organizers and the volunteers and the staff who believed in our improbable journey and rallied so many others to join.


We know the battle ahead will be long, but always remember that no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can withstand the power of millions of voices calling for change. We have been told we cannot do this by a chorus of cynics who will only grow louder and more dissonant in the weeks to come.


We've been asked to pause for a reality check. We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope.


But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope. For when we have faced down impossible odds; when we've been told that we're not ready, or that we shouldn't try, or that we can't, generations of Americans have responded with a simple creed that sums up the spirit of a people.


Yes we can.


It was a creed written into the founding documents that declared the destiny of a nation.


Yes we can.


It was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail toward freedom through the darkest of nights.


Yes we can.


It was sung by immigrants as they struck out from distant shores and pioneers who pushed westward against an unforgiving wilderness.


Yes we can.


It was the call of workers who organized; women who reached for the ballot; a President who chose the moon as our new frontier; and a King who took us to the mountaintop and pointed the way to the Promised Land.


Yes we can to justice and equality. Yes we can to opportunity and prosperity. Yes we can heal this nation. Yes we can repair this world. Yes we can.


And so tomorrow, as we take this campaign South and West; as we learn that the struggles of the textile worker in Spartanburg are not so different than the plight of the dishwasher in Las Vegas; that the hopes of the little girl who goes to a crumbling school in Dillon are the same as the dreams of the boy who learns on the streets of LA; we will remember that there is something happening in America; that we are not as divided as our politics suggests; that we are one people; we are one nation; and together, we will begin the next great chapter in America's story with three words that will ring from coast to coast; from sea to shining sea – Yes. We. Can.

The other allusion, work the problem? It's from the character Gene Kranz in the 1995 movie Apollo 13, played by Ed Harris, of the beautiful blue eyes.

Let's work the problem people. Let's not make things worse by guessing.

Here is the slight, but deft, unpacking required to make the phrase function -- from the blog Getting to Excellent, written by "business intelligence and performance manager" Caroline Eveleigh:

I can find no evidence that the words “work the problem” were uttered with the regularity that the film footage suggests, but I can imagine something similar might have been said.


As tempers and personalities flare and flash it is tempting to get defocused with who did what and why, instead of what needs to be done. NASA couldn’t afford to defocus; this was a critical time for them. They knew the eyes of the world were upon them, and that they were working with difficult and untried technology. They also knew that mistakes could mean the loss of life of their colleagues. I can’t imagine anything with more pressure.


So those 3 simple words encapsulate quite a lot:

• Stay focused on the issue
• Don’t let irrelevant details take attention away from what needs to be done
• Keep focused until the problem is solved

Having a process to solve problems can save time and tantrums, and improve the final outcome:

• Identify and define the problem
• Determine possible causes
• Agree the cause of the problem
• Evaluate possible solutions and select one
• Implement the solution
• Check that the problem has been solved

Not all our problems are rocket science, but that doesn’t make them any less important in achieving our goals.

I appreciate the inclusionary nod, there at the end.

To what problems did my raving mind apply both the pragmatic and the visionary aspects of my two "can do" phrasings?

Home alone [essentially, or whatever], very sick, legs edematous to an unbelievable degree, and spasming with less than 30 seconds respite between cycles, febrile, pain at 9/10, considerable moaning/yelling, and need to -- in a very particular order --

• Sit, and then stand, up
• Sit down in the wheelchair
• Disconnect from a vancomycin medicine ball, and then flush, a PICC line that is in the right upper arm, using only the right hand/arm [there are two 14-inch extensions]
• Secure those two extensions so that they are not flying about, as Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten greatly desires them
• Self-propel the wheelchair to the bathroom door, using the ever-available right arm, alone [dragging legs, as they proved unable to bend enough to get feet on the foot rests]
• Stand
• Open bathroom door
• Walk to toilet seat
• Hang on to towel bar
• Drop the scrub pants
• Sit on toilet seat
• Do the deeds
• Perform the hygiene
• Stand
• Find the waist drawstring of the scrub pant, pull 'em up
• And... so on

For what it is worth, I followed both the integral step breakdowns and the loftier rationale, the work the problem and the sí se puede.  If only the next instance of need would not follow so quickly, and with buggers of little modifications [left knee now buckles, right foot is slick with leaked lymphatic fluid].

Thank you for your attention.
Sincerely,
The Gimp

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

dear kind reader[s],

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

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

here's a quick summary: 

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

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

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

Nesting 1

I am having major surgery Monday, and the usual pre-op jitters have set in, full force.

In other news, my kidney function decided that *now* would be the ideal time to decline.  The great thing is that I've no symptoms, unless this Edema From Hell is related.  If Dr. ShoulderMan's SideKick had not called, I'd never have known... which would have been infinitely better, don't you think?

I predict a weekend of intense nesting activity.  Choose to stand still while in my general vicinity?  You risk being cleaned, rearranged, painted.  The middle of the night was meant for stirring, for building flavors, for sauces, for loving marinara.

When the pain is so bad that I cannot clean, cook, or repurpose irrational crockery, my domestic urges will find fulfillment in cat videos.  I wish that I'd had this little Flip camera while Sammy was alive, because nothing would touch my heart like visiting with him this weekend, fending off his weird amorous cat kisses... but the fluorishing Buddy the Kitten Collection will have to do.  Buddy is more Struggle and Scratch than Smooches and Mystery -- and maybe that's a good thing, at this stage of the game.

I had forgotten his herculean struggles with the blanket kept folded at the foot of the bed, a blanket which mocks him by not being where it clearly ought to be.  We still come upon him fiercely attempting the necessary relocation.

Truth be told, the pain is nearing the magic 10 on the 10 scale at this very moment, and Buddy happens to be snoozing with his head on the aforementioned blanket -- clearly, a sign that the first cat video of the weekend should be that May 2011 YouTube classic, Buddy the Kitten versus The Blanket.

I am going to try and finish a few drafts for the blog between nesting activities but I have promised as much twice already this week.  If I don't, please think good thoughts around 3 pm Monday, Tête de Hergé time, and I'll see you on the other side of anesthesia.

Soft Paw* Perils

[*If you are unfamiliar with the feline command "Soft Paw," please read up on the subject HERE. A short video on Soft Paw Training is included.]

We recently bought a 16 pound bag of Friskies cat kibble. The price sealed the deal, although the promise of an enclosed cat toy sweetened the pot, let me tell you. It's impossible to litter the floor with enough small, squeaky playthings.

The chow is about gone, a pretty amazing feat for three cats, but not, I guess, when you figure that one of those three is a healthy, young Maine Coon. That would be Citizen Buddy, the Freakishly Large Kitten.

From elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle

Buddy it was who assumed ownership of the Friskies enclosure, one very weird "Crinkling Paw Toy" that purportedly depicts Humpty-Dumpty, as featured in the 2011 blockbuster film Puss in Boots. It's made of felt, has a crispy creaking bit of something inside, and spindly legs and arms that flop around. Humpty sports an unlikely hat, a weird waistcoat, and drug-addled eyes. An embroidered porcine pug nose.

To a cat, I suppose it might look like a bug. A creepy, overweight bug.

Buddy is obsessed with his Humpty toy. In the course of a day, I've seen the thing staring up at me from almost every room in the West Wing of The Manor. I doublechecked to see if we had more than the one Freak of a Pastime. We don't.

Beady-eyed lippy creature.

We still spend lots of time each day playing fetch, in the hopes of reinforcing the "soft-paw" command in little Buddy's tiny mind. I cannot trim his claws and Fred refuses to. That leaves the natural erosive effect of running, sliding, and skidding like a cartoon across rough-hewn medieval timber flooring, as well as fine renaissance era parquet, plus vigorous scratching of fine leather furniture as the tacitly approved nail-trimming activities for indoor Manor cats. We are resigned to letting him work off the scalpel ends of his talons on Haddock finery, because we have experienced their entry into our flesh, and were humbled.

Teaching him to use "soft paws" on my CRPS limbs was a stroke of genius on my part, and I expect award upon award once he generalizes the command from the game of fetch and applies his learned gentleness to my hands and legs. In the interim, we just continue to strap extra large, industrial grade feminine napkins to my limbs with duct tape.

I am not sure how Humpty Dumpty fits into the Puss in Boots story, or even what the Puss in Boots story is, to begin with. I cannot imagine the narrative need for a ruined and bitter egg, who looks to be a bit of a failed metrosexual.

When I set out to find the lore at the heart of this eggy tale, I landed on a Christian movie review site. Great Caesar's ghost!

While this film was cleaner than the Shrek series, there was still some questionable material that I feel must be noted in order for parents to make an informed decision about whether or not to see this movie


Violence: Moderate. There are several fight scenes between Puss in Boots and other characters in the film, including a few sword fights. Of course, Puss in Boots steals from people. There is a scene where Puss in Boots, Kitty Soft paws, and Humpty Dumpty, are being shot at with guns and cannons. There is another scene where Humpty Dumpty pretends to be hit by a cart. Kitty Soft Paws scratches Jack’s face. There is another scene where Puss in Boots scratches faces (unintentionally). There is a brief scene where Humpty Dumpty is hit in his private area. Lastly, Puss in Boots is knocked out.


Profanity: Mild. One character says the phrase “Holy Frijoles.” There is a scene where Kitty Soft Paws mentions to Humpty Dumpty that she knows how to speak “meow.” The word “pooper” is mentioned, and Puss in Boots is referred as “frisky” two times.


Sex/Nudity: Mild. There are a couple scenes where a man’s pants fall down. Humpty Dumpty is seen changing in front of Puss and Soft Paws. Lastly, toward the end of the film, one man is seen bathing.


Other: There is one dance sequence in the film where Puss in Boots makes a couple obscene dance gestures, but this is brief. There is a mention of “catnip” (a mild drug reference). ***SPOILER*** One of the main characters dies ***SPOILER END***.


Spiritual issues/morals:


As we see Puss in Boots progress through this film, he realizes toward the end that he never had to steal, in the first place. He realizes he was wrong, and he tries to repay the town of San Ricardo for his misdoing. He seeks forgiveness. In the same way, God is willing to forgive us of all our sins, if we are truly sorry and repent of our sins. The Bible says in 1 John 1:9,

“If we confess our sins he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” (NIV)

Well, that scared the hell out of me, for sure.  The story of Puss in Boots is a Shrek spinoff?  Is there no respect for... oh, I dunno... Charles Perrault and his Histoires ou contes du temps passé, avec des moralités: Contes de ma mère l'Oye? You know, the father of Mother Goose? Wouldn't making that link bring the whole moralizing side of things into something of a clearer focus?

I've been glaring at Buddy, but none of this is his fault. He thinks it's a bug, this floppy, felted, belted (and hatted) toy.

My shoulders hurt, but then, you know that. You likely assume, though, that I baby them, that I spare myself the pain that would come from stuff like clearing the deck of a season of oak leaves or gathering six miles of garden hose coils onto a wall-mounted reel. It wouldn't occur to you that I'd expend any energy, much less necrotic bone and pus-imbued tissue, on attempts to throw a piffling bit of fluff like the Friskies Crinkling Humpty-Dumpty Paw Toy.

If you don't have one of these creatures, try throwing a feather. Or a dandelion seed head. Go on, give it your all.

Fred gives Humpty's hat a firm grip between his index and thumb, then flicks the thing like he'd toss a frisbee. He achieves loft but has no lateral control, and so, when he does the deed while lying in bed, for instance, Humpty often lands on The Fred's head, performing more as a perversely soft boomerang weapon system than a dependable and proper flying pie pan.

I'll try most anything once, and will repeat most anything to near death if I get a whiff of success and enjoyment out of it. So it is that my titanium shoulders have nearly come undone trying to please Buddy by launching the Friskies Humpty-Dumpty into very thin air.

My best efforts seem to come when I ball the darned thing up and whip it, side-armed, aiming for one of the dozen linen closets in our well-appointed living quarters, in front of which is a flimsy bit of area rug, the perfect foil for a cat pretending to be a torpedo.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.

We mutter that bit of doggerel all the live long day, as if it were a promise from the Creator.  Fred has dropped the zombie toy into the kissing stones of the grist mill.  I have run it through various graters, coffee grinders, and even sliced the thing on my Calphalon Precision Mandoline.  And still, when we creep back into our luxurious apartment, our hearts lighter at the thought of Humpty's unexpected demise, there he sits, lank legs crossed, shell intact, weird headgear perched jauntily on his big, fat, pointy head.

Who knew, back when we started Project Soft Paw, where it would lead?

Save yourselves, Friends.  Beware the Crinkling Paw Toy.

sunday night check-in

i apologize for not "checking in" before now -- and hope to post something worth a read tomorrow or tuesday.  my legs are giving me fits, and the pain/fevers/chills from the infected shoulder make me a very uninteresting person, indeed.

saw the surgeon thursday, and remembered why he and his staff will always be heros to me.  what they are attempting to do for me is technically and medically difficult, something my go-to-guy doctor and i both tend to forget.  so it mattered to take a few minutes thursday to recognize that fact.

the down side of such emoting was the ensuing hug fest -- which rapidly degenerated into friendly shoulder pats that nearly made me scream.

there was one little bit of unexpected news.

dr. shoulderman was trying to walk me through the process and i was only half-listening, as this is not exactly new territory.  he'd gone over the ins-and-outs of the first surgery, talked about the need for a new infectious disease specialist, the PICC line, and 6 weeks or so or intravenous antibiotics.  (he briefly cradled his head in what might have been exasperation at the news that i was still taking oral doxicycline when surgery was 10 days away.  so shoot me... no one told me to stop and it just did not occur to me that it would screw up the culture sampling.  i stopped taking it thursday and pray that was soon enough for it to exit my tissues.)

he paused, and i entertained notions of actually going home and curling up under a few inches of soft flannel, as i just could not get warm.  i have even resorted to covering my feet, something that causes severe burning pain, as even my feet feel cold these days -- and this, after a decade of sleeping with them uncovered.  i also thought about trying to line up the roto-rooter treatment for my port, which, at the moment, will allow stuff to be administered but will not, in turn, surrender any blood for testing.  and, to be honest, there were some thoughts of stopping somewhere for lunch.  i was thinking taco bell when dr. shoulderman's voice took on a new tone...

"after 3-6 months, if all goes well, we will want to go in and remove the spacer, of course.  if it appears successful and we find no obvious evidence of infection, there are then two choices."

i think i probably smiled.  i didn't know i had choices!  this was great news!  i thought there was just the one option, the option we had bandied about for over a year -- the old reverse total shoulder replacement.  a woman with choice, a woman with options, now that's a happening woman.  i put taco bell and roto-rooting plans away, and tried to pay attention.

"we can put in a new prosthesis..." he said this in the most desultory way, as if it were something too awful to contemplate.  odd, i thought, since that is, of course, the best outcome -- a clean shoulder, a new bit of bionic wonder.

"i thought of you last week as we finished surgery on a gentleman in much the same situation. i put in a new prosthesis, the frozen sections looked good, it seems like he had beat the infection.  then eight days later, i get a call saying that something has grown in his cultures -- p. acnes.(this is the major suspect in my case, as well) -- and now he is back on the merry-go-round."

why, dr. shoulderman, that sounds suspiciously like a cautionary tale!

more sober talking, more somber scenarios in which it looks like i have beat the pathogens all to pieces when, behold!  the suckers were just lurking in the hope of reasserting themselves on some new implant.  there were dire descriptions of the state of my bones (no news there), and at the opportune moment, shoulderman shifted gears...

"and so it may very well be that at the time of the second surgery, i will have to assess the situation and consider leaving you with a flail shoulder."

the smile stayed on my face because i had not the least notion of what a flail shoulder was.  i knew the term flail chest from some EMT courses way back when -- and knew it to be a horrible trauma that basically unhinged the rib cage in folks who slam into the steering wheel in a car wreck.  inane smile still plastered on my face, i interrupted to make my inquiry into our brave new lexicon.

turns out that flail shoulder is the polite surgical term for no-freaking-shoulder-at-all.


in truth, this result had been mentioned before, but only in passing, and only, i thought, as a conversational oddity, a bit of ripley's believe it or not.  i remember, most specifically, my go-to-guy doctor whispering, several years back, "this is not going to end well."

dr. shoulderman, kind and handsome, talked on.  some people were able to train themselves to use scar tissue as a kind of new muscle, thereby allowing for some arm movement. i was particularly thrilled to hear that "some people can learn to bring their hand to the mouth."

unfortunately, even the most scintillating of conversations have to end (this one, as that one!).  but i've carried on the talk inside my head, a few minutes at a time, more if the fever spikes a good bit and my frustrations pop out.  i keep imagining what ifs that don't help one bit but are nonetheless all too probable.  how will i do x now, how will i do y?

within two days, fred was already able to think productive, forward-inclining thoughts.  yesterday, he even inquired about the possibility of an external bit of hardware with which i might regain control of my left arm, once it's been rendered flail.  i was dismissive, as it seems like dr. shoulderman would have brought that up right away in his extemporaneous powerpoint presentation.  fred, as usual, is a great point man, and a quick googling of "flail arm" turns up many examples of braces, hooks, and goth-inspired hardware that can be strapped on, and, if nothing else, used to make me look fierce, tough, and borderline biker.

Stanmore orthosis with hook:
Add a clutch and silvertone choker studded with Swarovski crystals for an easy day-to-evening look.

i don't know whether it is the stress of it all, suddenly, or what, but my left leg is now the fugly spitting image of the right one, and both are spasming to the beat of a whacked-out drummer.  i refuse to repeat the die hard description that one crps-er after another has ripped off and reiterated: "imagine being doused in gasoline, lit on fire, and then kept that way 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and knowing it was never going to be put out..." it's... depressing.

dr. shoulderman is wonderfully cognizant of my crps, and though we rarely discuss it, he is well-informed, as every orthopedic surgeon should be.  he has been distressed by the obvious crps spread, and the condition of my arms, as surgery anywhere is never wise with crps on board, and repeated surgeries in an area of lots of rsd activity is what polite society calls a "no-no."  so he decided to order repeat regional blocks in an effort to prevent further spread.  it was comforting, reassuring -- he cited a recent study, and did so in depth, an impressive feat for a man whose brain must be chock full o'important stuff.

tomorrow will be a long and uncomfortable day.  it's off to the hospital we go, for testing, testing, testing, and -- i predict -- some arguing with the billing office.  they say i owe over $3000 from a few years back -- they didn't file with my insurance company until 18 months passed from the date-of-service, and by then, i had switched to a new insurance, and -- of course -- the former company refused to pay.  if they make this admission contingent on paying that bill?  i will be in a tough spot.

ah, and tomorrow they'll culture skin and nares for mrsa... i have cultured positive several times before, therefore spending my time in isolation, with a very frustrated fred having to wear those awful yellow paper gowns, and be gloved up.

maybe i can have them give me the roto-rooter port clean-up tomorrow.  if we have to spend the day, may as well check off as many chores as possible.

so that's what has me away from the blog... although my heart is always at the manor, safe in marlinspike hall.

"Love, Fa": Nothing good gets away

In her review of Steinbeck: A Life in Letters, Maria Popova of Brain Pickings sells the book in the best way, by giving us a taste of Steinbeck unadorned and earnest, answering in the afternoon a letter he received from his son that morning.

Brain Pickings is one of a hectic day's joys, by the way.  How could it not be, for it promises -- and often delivers, "[i]nterestingness, curated – picking culture's collective brain..."

Among his correspondence is this beautiful response to his eldest son Thom’s 1958 letter, in which the teenage boy confesses to have fallen desperately in love with a girl named Susan while at boarding school. Steinbeck’s words of wisdom — tender, optimistic, timeless, infinitely sagacious — should be etched onto the heart and mind of every living, breathing human being.

New York
November 10, 1958


Dear Thom:


We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.


First — if you are in love — that’s a good thing — that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.


Second — There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you — of kindness and consideration and respect — not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.


You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply — of course it isn’t puppy love.


But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it — and that I can tell you.


Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.


The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.


If you love someone — there is no possible harm in saying so — only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.


Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.


It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another — but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.


Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.


We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.


And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens — The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.


Love,


Fa

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

Steinbeck married three times, Elaine Scott being his third wife in what was a happy union.  His sons Thom and John IV were from his second marriage with Gwyn Conger.

He wrote East of Eden for his boys.

In a letter of that period, Steinbeck  noted, "And so I will tell them one of the greatest, perhaps the greatest story of all - the story of good and evil, of strength and weakness, of love and hate, of beauty and ugliness. I shall try to demonstrate to them how these doubles are inseparable - how neither can exist without the other and how out of their groupings creativeness is born."  [Journal of a Novel:  The East of Eden Letters]

My love is like a red damn rose: Pot pourri

Did you know that the Soap Opera is in decline?  I suppose that its plummeting ratings mirror the dizzying ascent of the reality show, but who has time to ponder such mysteries?  Especially in this particular climate, where La Bonne et Belle Bianca and her dalliances with both Sven Feingold and his [biological] son, Marlinspike Hall's own Cabana Boy, lend every morning an air of mystery.

Not since that long ago time in the mountains of Asheville have I so enjoyed my first public coffees of the day, when anticipating which of my roommate's sexual partners might turn up in the communal kitchen, begging for the bean, was my version of doing the Times' Sunday crossword with a leaky gel pen.

But I am all grown up now, and since Sven towers over everyone on Manor property, from the genetically indentured Domestic Staff to the various Squatters, and probably looks down, as well, on our various guests -- Brother Anthony, the Retreat Master at the monastery down the road, being the sole, grotesquely tall exception -- I can readily distinguish Sven the Father Feingold from his more swarthy, earthbound son.  I prefer finding Sven in my kitchens of a morning, to tell you the truth.  Swarthy, earthbound boy-men are not conducive to peaceful wakings, and Cabana Boy also tends to bring out the swarthy, earthbound side of The Castafiore -- who is already a shade beyond Oompa Loopa, thanks to her unbelievably delicate pH balance being skewed by epileptic fits of spray-tanning.  The Diva combined with the Cabana Boy, mixed with sleepy confusion, me, three cats, and the somnambulism that is Fred?  We end up as often with a bottle of cheap rum as we do Italian roast.

So give me Sven in the kitchen, any day.  He's surly.  I understand surly.

In other local soap opera news, we are never at a dramatic loss these days thanks to the vocal stylings of CrackHead Lady Across The Way, who turns out to be a very well-known organic pig farmer.  She steals the limelight with soliloquies to her Ugg boots and curious crowds gather -- mid-morning and again at midnight -- to watch her use the muddy pits of the hog lot as an exfoliating (yet wonderfully moisturizing) body wash.

You're in trouble now, Dear Reader!  You've probably gathered that it's Potpourri Day here at the Haddock clan's ancestral home, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé (très décédé. d'ailleurs).  Not potpourri like Stinky Whore Perfume, no!  Potpourri like I explained in the first of my series of fifteen Potpourri posts, back in September 2008:

Pot pourri (rotten pot). Fitting that the name for a beautifully arranged bowl yielding questionable scents derives from the Spanish designation for olla podrida -- pork and beans. True, the Spanish being Spanish, said pork and beans stew is subject to the rarefying whims of the creative cook, a clay pot, and a long cooking time, and becomes a satisfying culinary hodgepodge.


I learned from reading the entry for potpourri in Wikipedia that, "(w)hen mixed, you need to enclose the mixture in a bottle or jar, and let it sit for a few weeks. Towards the middle of the weeks, the soon to be potpourri may smell rotten. If you wait a little while longer, it will start to smell better, so don't get discouraged or disappointed." (I particularly relish, and appreciate, the encouragement to fend off the ravages of clinical depression.)


And so it goes that necrotic pots and gentrified stinkiness head up this blog entry -- the result of my search for an excuse that might unify my disjointed thoughts.

There, I think I have excused myself enough -- for one post, at least..

Back here in January of 2012, I am all over the place, very anxious, in a lot of physical pain, and weeping like a depressed willow.  That's one of my most annoying features, and since it only happens when my fever hits that certain point, I am frequently annoying.  Running a tight ship, much less a Fictional Manor, while the eye orbs are leaking, requires a discipline that I just do not appear to have.  Please get the fineness of this characterization. Inwardly stern, I am outwardly a blow to various laws of physics and, increasingly, most notions of beauty -- plus almost all the foundational dictates of civilization and democracy..

Fred and I are accustomed to ignoring both my tears and the febrile egotism that comes with them, but we encounter nothing but consternation from our Turnip Vendor and the Hairy Men of the Monastery Novitiate -- who pop in, en masse, for hot chocolate during down times in the Liturgy of the Hours, usually between  Sext and None, which works out to be roughly after lunch but before 3 pm (or the ninth hour after dawn, whichever comes first).

The Hairy Men of the Monastery Novitiate, I mean, not the Turnip Vendor.  He, of course, comes at 10 am and I never serve him hot chocolate, just good, solid-stolid Earl Grey with an extremely thin slice of lemon.  I pick over the turnips in the time it takes him to drink it down and munch on a piece of shortbread -- but if I am weeping, he has time for a sour cream poppy seed cake, too.

Funny, isn't it, how we find our way, even in the midst of the cultivated angst and internecine struggles of this largely fictional, documentary-minded blog?  Absolutely amazing that I should find any path to follow on a day like this!  And through the film of hot, hot tears, too.

I don't publish even a third of my blog posts, using them mostly as fodder for the intensive hypnotic regression therapy that takes up most of real life in actual time.  [Oops, that cat is out of the bag!]  You know how much I resist putting my personal shit out there for just anyone to read and how I hate to rarefy the inner workings of my quotidian blahblahblah.  My extensive criminal history of assault-and-battery charges against various media-outlet paparazzi testifies eloquently to that reticence.  [Music to these ears?  "Time served!"]

Ma Teresa by Snowcrash
Entry in Celebrity Mugshots/Photo Effects Contest

You should be glad that so little makes it to these pages, otherwise every post would be a Potpourri post, and  the constant shift in topic might result in texts that are decidedly unreaderly (such creative animosity is the leading cause of semiotic whiplash for all age groups, sexual orientations, and left-leaning Democrats, but no bisexual Republicans over 60).

You are, by the way, escaping my spate of Barthes jokes.  By the skin of your teeth.

Meaning: Narrowly; barely. Usually used in regard to a narrow escape from a disaster.


Origin: The phrase first appears in English in the Geneva Bible, 1560, in Job 19:20, which provides a literal translation of the original Hebrew:

"I haue escaped with the skinne of my tethe."

Teeth don't have skin, of course, so the writer may have been alluding to the teeth's surface or simply to a notional minute measure - something that might now be referred to, with less poetic imagery than the biblical version, as 'as small as the hairs on a gnat's bollock.'

There is little more fascinating to me than process, which explains a whole hell of a lot, ifyouknowwhatimean.  [ifyouknowwhatimean, when repeated three times or more within the confines of as many sentences, means i-think-you-are-stupid-and-i-am-lying-to-you-right-now.  A lesson learned.]


My favorite Barthes joke is but biological truth -- lunch with François Mitterand, followed by the laundry truck. Always the cultural critic.

I can't help myself.

But there is still hope for YOU!

I do you an infinite mercy, not rushing any and every thing out these Baptistry doors, over the drawbridge, left at the moat, through the barn-cum-rehabilitation-centre-mostly-for-carnies, and over the rope bridge to the Computer Turret.

Shortly after commencing this post, I stumbled upon one J. Patrick Rick, author of The Abbey and Me: Renegades, Rednecks, Real Estate and Religion.  Why Mr. Rick was taking a nap in the Captain's Private Quarters, I will not presume to say.  He waxed poetic, but waned prosaic, as he explained the focus of his recently published book.  It documents, he said, "the story of how a mansion, converted into a monastery, was raided in a hostile takeover."  Leaning into the 19 pink heart-shaped satin pillows required for Haddock's ease, Rick wondered aloud "why Marlinspike Hall evokes so many memories of talking pike, flying elephants, arthurian fantasy, agrarian utopia, and preposterous Disney animation cels?"

His story is, he insists, all true:

A little after midnight on New Year’s Day 1975, a band of Menominee Indian warriors took over the Alexian Brothers novitiate in Wisconsin, seizing several hostages in the process. Rick begins his investigation by researching the depression-era construction of that rural and palatial private mansion prior to its use as a monastery.


He further educates his readers about the glory days as a remote religious institution, its role as an epicenter for civil disobedience and its date with dynamite... Rick says he was motivated to write about this particular subject when he returned to find his novitiate, a.k.a. abbey, crumbling down.


“Over 30 years after leaving Wisconsin, I had to return to Milwaukee for a business trip,” Rick says. “I decided to make the nostalgic half-day drive up north to Gresham only to find the monastery I remembered so fondly was in ruins.”


The author, known as Brother Gordon in the monastery, allowed his persistence, curiosity and fond memories of a long-forgotten place to speak the praises of this once spectacular monastery and its extensive history...   

I bought a few copies for The Manor Gift Shoppe, eye candy to put next to the registers along with jars of Abbot Truffatore's tomato jam and some local candy -- samples dominated by Tante Louise's chocolate-covered pretzel balls, bite-sized nuggets of sweet and salty perfection.  Haddock Corporation hosted a mandatory Happy Hour mini-symposium last week, all about how to encourage impulse buys -- and I took copious notes.  As folks ponder the beauties of our medieval manor turned decorative arts museum, theme park, petting zoo, and addiction treatment center, we want to bolster the local economies, sure, but also we want to nourish the imagination, planting the seeds of psychosis, in hopes of thus garnering a return visit, and maybe even an extended stay!

Well, my pot is pretty much pourri.  And really, tomorrow's post will almost write itself, as we regale you with the tale of all that happened between today's paragraphs.  Though it doesn't show, The Manor was without a communications bundle for most of the day, occasioning much cursing and damning of the major telecommunications company in the Metro Lone Alp area.

Tomorrow will be spent doing pre-op stuff.  I am getting nervous, but also am hopeful that this surgery will be the one that finally turns things around.  This time, the stubborn little pathogen(s) will take to the culture media like bacteria to agar... (Sorry, the end of the day allows for no skewing of reality with fancy-schmancy similes and such.  Oh hell, all right.  My love is like a red damn rose.  There.  Are you happy now?)

Happy Birthday, Stephen Hawking, and How Goes the Universe Today?

University of Cambridge, Research News

Professor Stephen Hawking’s 70th birthday public symposium

To coincide with Professor Stephen Hawking’s 70th birthday, the University of Cambridge’s Centre for Theoretical Cosmology, in conjunction with Intel, is hosting a public symposium on Sunday, 08 January entitled ‘The State of the Universe’.

Speakers will include Professor Hawking, the Astronomer Royal Lord (Martin) Rees, Professor Saul Perlmutter (University of California, Berkeley, 2011 Nobel Prize in Physics), and one of the world’s leading theoretical physicists Professor Kip Thorne (California Institute of Technology).

2 – 6pm, Sunday 08 January 2012

However, for those unable to attend, the symposium will be webcast live. Please visit: http://www.ctc.cam.ac.uk/hawking70/multimedia.html

In addition to the symposium, a scientific conference (which is already fully booked) will be held earlier in the week (05-07 January). A major goal of the conference will be to review the current status of the fields of black holes, cosmology and fundamental physics; the 27 invited speakers are all world leaders in these fields. Additional information regarding the conference can be found at the following website: http://www.ctc.cam.ac.uk/stephen70/

The Republican Debate: "An exchange reminiscent of Abbott and Costello's Who's on First routine"

GOP debate: Mitt Romney grows foggy on contraception

By Robin Abcarian
January 7, 2012, 7:25 p.m.

It was an exchange reminiscent of Abbott and Costello’s famous Who’s on First routine. George Stephanopoulos repeatedly asked Mitt Romney about whether he thinks that states have the right to ban contraception, and Romney repeatedly replied that he had no idea why Stephanopoulos would ask such a question.

In fact, Stephanopoulos was prodding Romney about whether he believes there is a constitutional right to privacy as the U.S. Supreme Court has found in two landmark cases, 1973’s Roe vs. Wade, and 1965’s Griswold vs. Connecticut , which found that states do not have the right to ban contraception. In that case, the court cited a right to “marital privacy.”

In recent days, Rick Santorum has raised Griswold on the campaign trail in New Hampshire. He believes Griswold and Roe were incorrectly decided by the Supreme Court because, in his view, the Constitution does not contain a privacy right.

But when Stephanopoulos asked Romney about this issue, Romney seemed to have absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

“George, this is an unusual topic that you’re raising,” Romney said. “States have the right to ban contraception? I can’t imagine that states would want to ban contraception. If I were a governor or a legislator in a state, I would totally oppose any effort to ban contraception. So you’re asking -- given the fact that there’s no state that wants to do so -- you are asking could it constitutionally be done? We could we could ask our constitutionalist here,” said Romney, gesturing to Ron Paul. The audience erupted in laughter and applause.

Stephanopoulos could not be dissuaded from pursuing his question.

“I am asking you, do you believe states have that right or not?”

Romney seemed perplexed, and annoyed: “George, I don’t know whether the state has the right to ban contraception. No state wants to. The idea of you putting forward things that states might want to do that no state wants to do is kind of a silly thing, I think.”

At that point, as the audience applauded, things got a little strained.

[Read the rest of Abcarian's article HERE]