Throw This

Short of breath and fatigued, I am riding my couch as per usual, just moving around less.  I'm so weak.  I'm trying to sleep as much as I can and not stress so much.  Easier said than done.

I can get ativan filled tomorrow. Yay. Calmer living through modern chemistry. It is a drug that actually does calm me down considerably, and usually acts within 15 minutes.  I wish they made a happy pill that did the same thing.

Rue, the German Shepherd, becomes distressed when I cry. If she's in her crate she whines, if she's out I get a furious face licking. Maybe she thinks my sobs are dog howls. 

She will sometimes pick up a dishtowel and poke me with it, wanting to play, or poke me with a ball, and by this I mean she takes it in her mouth and shoves it at me. Poke Poke Poke. I guess she's saying, "Shut up and throw this already, enough with the howling!"

Bad News :(

Back from the heart doc this morning - he thinks I have another blockage.  I am a bundle of raw nerves and my head has reached critical mass. 

I am scheduled for all the same tests I had at the beginning.  Another torturous echo cardiogram for my screamy boobs, more thallium, etc.

I am kind of wondering what the point of having a new round of tests is, since I will refuse any further surgery at this point.   I am certainly not keen on a second round of heart torture - it has only been 3 months since the first time.  I am nowhere near healed from the first surgery, and I don't think my brain can take another round on the pump so soon.  I still have lots of "Pump Head" symptoms that have not improved at all.  Maybe they can do something with drugs this time. I feel devastated. 

Note to self: seek out nearest neighborhood porch asap as future hideout.

I finally have an appointment with the pain specialist. The heart guy says he will probably want to do a nerve block. The pain appointment is the day after I get thallium. ::twitch::  Maybe he can do a nerve block that starts at the top of my head and ends just under my knees.

Today is the first time ever the heart doc did not say to me, "You're going to be ok!"

Carnival of Doom

I miss the bigtop
The smell of greasepaint horse crap
Corndogs and vomit

Dammit

The cardiology nurse calls me back from the message I left on Friday.  She says, "You really sound bad, you should come into the office."   

Oops, I already used all my energy going to Walgreens today.  Really, I'm tapped out-- I feel like a wet, wrung-out dishrag, and I explain this to her.  I'm going in tomorrow morning at 10:00. In the meantime if I get feeling any worse I should to go to the ER, per the nurse. 

WTH I've been like this for weeks and somebody finally notices, even though I've been complaining loud and long the entire time?  Also, does that even make sense?  I feel too weak to go to the doctor's office, but apparently I'll be strong enough to take myself to the ER?

So, along with sounding really bad, I FEEL really bad.  I might go missing for awhile.  Don't get excited, I'll be back when I can.

No Comprendo

Geezo I woke up at 4:00AM, my usual, but I was dreaming I was in Mexico trying to buy drugs.  Oddly, I was walking, and holding a hammer.  I have never been to Mexico, but my dreams think it's hot, dry, and dusty like an old Clint Eastwood movie. 

The Mexico of my dreams is strangely devoid of people, except of course, the girl behind the drug counter at the pharmacy who kept saying, "no comprendo." 

Even my dreams piss me off.

I have one pill left.

In the Trunk with a Wolverine

I hurt.  I'm sad.  I'm sick and broken. I can't do anything but lay here.  That's it.  Just lay here.  There is an occasional room to room forray, but mostly I lay here and herd dogs to and fro.

 I called the Cardiologist's nurse today to ask that she light a fire under this Dr. Blotner character, the pain specialist, since I haven't heard a word from their camp despite all my pestering and badgering.  (Trust me, pestering and badgering are good things.  If you're on my bad side it's more akin to being locked in the trunk of a car with a wolverine.)

I am kind of anxious about the CT scan of Lefty.  I think they've wrecked poor Lefty forever and I'm worried.  I'm mostly worried because if it's something really bad, I am too weak to survive any additional treatment.

I have two pills left.

Drugs Like Gold

I went to Walgreen's to drop off my pain script, and had planned to go into Walmart to get a few tasteless food items while I was waiting for Walgreen's to diddle my pills. 

The Script was for 60 oxy 1 or 2 every 6 hours as needed for pain.  They wouldn't let me have them.  They said I couldn't have them until the 29th.  That's 4 days from now.  SOMEBODY miscounted.  It wasn't me.  I have 4 pills left. That's one a day. *sigh*

What the hell am I supposed to do until then?  Just lay on my bed and writhe around?  Go find a heroin dealer?  WTF? I am not making another trip to the stupid ER because somebody doesn't know how to count pain pills. If I took my gold to one of those melty-down-yer-gold places, do you think they might give me pain pills in trade?

I went into Walmart to regroup.  It's across the highway about about 1/4 mile down.  I bought a bag of half-sized potato buns.  I selected 2 greenish bananas, 4 white flesh peaches (which I love dearly) I felt up all the grapes but was unimpressed. And that's when I lost it. 

I started to cry next to the grapes. I cried all the way back to the frozen food where I selected a single serving Marie Calendar's White Cheddar Mac & Cheese, grabbed a 12 pack of Coke Zero, and hurried to the checkout area, head down, trying to not make any sobbing sounds like I usually do, and of course had a fist full of snotrags at the ready, to snort into if needed.

I tried as best as I could to make no eye contact.  I paid with my debit card, sobbing, quietly sobbing. Took my basket to the car, loaded up my few purchases in the back, got in the front seat, turned on the motor and the a/c and just laid there with my head on the steering wheel, my eyes pouring tears.

And suddenly something just occurred to me.  If I'm dying I ought to be able to have a fucking cookie if I want one.  I ought to be able to have a whole fucking GROSS of cookies if I wanted.


I should be able to have a nice rib eye steak, and a nice potato with butter and sour fucking cream if I wanted.  Instead of whole wheat pasta with shit-flavor wet ashes sauce on it.


I should be able to have a piece of cake, or some pie, or whatever the hell I want. I should be able to have the WHOLE cake, if I want the whole damned cake.  Fuck the one piece of cake.  I want the whole damned cake.  And my cake better have some icing roses on it, dammit!  ::sniff::

 

Living Hurts

Breathing hurts
reclining hurts
walking hurts
standing hurts
taking a shower hurts
coughing, sneezing and hiccoughing hurts
Living hurts

When I was a little girl they told us in school to offer up our suffering for the poor souls in Purgatory.  Purgatory was a real place at that time - like Hell, only not forever...sort of like a prison for sinners. Sinners had a chance to get out of Purgatory.  If people on earth prayed for their souls or had masses said for them, of offered up some of their "earthly suffering" it could literally BUY a soul out of Purgatory and then the soul would get to go to heaven.

At some point, I don't know when, the Catholic Church did away with Purgatory and Limbo. (Limbo was an afterlife place for the unbaptized.)When they did this, they rendered suffering absolutely useless.  There is no longer any reason at all to suffer, and yet suffering still persists.

I want to call in all my suffering chips. Oh, and I suffered plenty over my relatively short lifetime, so I should have a huge pile of suffering chips amassed somewhere.   Can't I trade in a few of them?  Just a few?

When is it my turn

When is it my turn
to be fixed to feel better
Be normal once more

Bad Haiku #137

I'd leave my house except I'm afraid someone would see me crying. I'm afraid of crying in public.  Once I start, I can't stop crying no matter where I am.  I don't want people to see me - my eyes are swollen and red. I haven't put on makeup for months, because it would melt from the tears.  Then I'd look like one of my clown selves, with big black mascara tear streaks and horrible lipstick.

Maybe I should buy a burka so nobody can tell if I'm crying or not. Maybe that's what all those women under burkas are doing?

I cry because I hurt. I cry because I'm depressed. I cry because I'm sad. I don't foresee an end to any of these reasons.

Cooters

Cooters are turtles
You can count their rings like trees
If you need their age.

Bad Haiku #136

One of the coolest things I have ever seen is at the gangplank to Harrah's casino in Tunica, Mississippi. 

I rarely gamble. Most often in the past if I was going to a casino, it was to eat there.  Paula Deen has a buffet at Harrah's that is drool inducing.  Maybe I'd drop $20 in the slots, but that's it.  I can't stand to lose, and that's what I do at casinos, is lose. 

I went there at Thanksgiving, since they have turkey dinner and all the trimmings at the buffet.  Before getting to the buffet, a trip down the gangplank is required.  I noticed bubblegum dispensers placed about every 10 feet or so all the way down the gangplank.  I looked closer and noticed that inside the dispensers the "bubblegum" is brown...I walked over to one and it read across the front, "Turtle Food 25 cents."

I walked about 2 or 3 feet closer to the fence which is the side of the gangplank and looked over the edge.  I saw hundreds and HUNDREDS of turtles, all of them looking back at me, most of them with open mouths!  I could tell they were open mouths since I could see pink diamond shapes amid a sea of brown river water, and various turtle-colored turtles. Clearly it was a stroke of genius for Harrah's to put Turtle Food dispensers here. *eyeroll*

I quickly felt around the bottom of my purse for quarters so I could feed the panhandling, begging turtles because that was clearly what they wanted --poor starved little things!  There was everything from little red eared sliders, to big old snappers, some terrapins, and odd looking soft shelled turtles with their snorkely noses.  It was a friggin turtle party with all sizes  represented from little coin-sized things all the way up to man-hole-cover-sized monstrosity turtles!  I can't wait to go back.  Next time, I'm taking a camera.

New Hair

I know you're all just dying to see, but I'm waiting for a photographer who won't make me look like a 2-headed calf. Me  lol.  I'll prolly take my laptop outside on the patio table tomorrow.  You really have to see it in the sunlight to appreciate.

I HATE that long ass FB/Myspace arm thing when people try to take dramatic shots of themselves.

I acutally own a tripod, but it's either in the garage or in the attic.  In either place it would be up high, and I don't have enough energy to dig out a short ladder and carry it up there, or throw rocks at it until it falls down.  (OOO not to mention collecting and carrying a bag of rocks in the first place.  Geez, I probably should have had Rue start climbing ladders last month, now that I think of it.  Damn all the luck.

So the hair....I had it "silvered"  One of those plastic frosting cap things is jammed on the head, and using a sharp crochet hook (I swear she was drawing blood) pieces of hair are pulled through the cap, while the rest of the hair is protected by the plastic.  They were a little worried about the few actual red hairs I have left.  They suspected the red ones would turn into cotton-candy-pink, but nothing like that happened. 

Every bit of color is removed ("stripped") from the pieces of hair which are now outside the cap, making them look white, but they are actually transparent.  Silver is rubbed vigorously into the now prepared hairs.  It looks pretty cool - I like it.  It's not something everyone has, it's dramatic but not freakishly dramatic.  I think it suits me.  Yay I'm actually happy with an aspect of my appearance for a change!  lol 

Monday Monday

Dammit, weekends piss me off - particularly when I'm waiting for the rest of the world to open up on Monday morning, so *I* can conduct business and man o man do I have a metric butt ton of business all because several people decided to dick around and waste the entirety of last week. 


Nothing pisses me off like time wasters and clock watchers.  It ALMOST makes me want to go back into business for the sole purpose of firing some people. 


I have business in several cities in Arkansas and I'm not supposed to even drive that far yet.  I should be ok, if I jump out of the car every 30 minutes or so and do a singular Chinese firedrill - they claim this will help me to not get a clot.  If someone finds my body in a ditch on Monday, please explain to them I was a doing a Chinese firedrill and why.


As an aside, any business conducted in the South is prounounced, "Bidness" and sometimes even spelled that way.

Wrath Wrath & More Wrath

I FINALLY got a hold of the Pain Doctor's wench.  I asked to make an appointment. She tells me, "Well, that's not the way things are done here."  Already I can feel my fingers wrap around the imaginary hammer handle in my hand as I reply sweetly, "Why, whatever do you mean, not the way things are done?"

She tells me a huge, 139 item list of things that have to be done BEFORE obtaining an appointment. I was numbering them as I was writing them down.  No shit - 139. Writing them down pfft - do you people realize I know shorthand, a dying art? learned back when it took entire buildings to house computers.  I digress...

"Let me make a phone call or two and someone will get back to you."

"But, Ma'ammmmmm, that's not the way we do thinnnngs." She was beginning to whine. I could feel my hand tightening on the imaginary hammer.

"I SAID someone would get back to you." ::click::  (There are very few things as satisfying to me as the click of hanging up on someone who has become a pain in my ass.)

I called my Cardiologist's Secretary.  She faxed my entire file over to this doctor - which apparently is step #138.  #139 is they decide if I fit the criteria.  AHA!  It just occurs to me they're doing a study.  WTF nobody mentioned that to me!   Fuck them.  I am partaking in no study.   I want a real doctor using real drugs I can buy at the real pharmacy, thank you very much. I'm rolling heads dammit.

Wrath for the Pain Doctor

The pain management guy is giving me a huge pain in the ass by not calling me back. You know I have nothing whatsoever to do all day except stew.  You'd think people would notice that and get right back to me. I've been stewing over this guy since Tuesday, and four phone calls.  So far the best plan I've come up with involves riding the escalator behind him exactly 3 steps.

There I was all happy about the prospect of going to stupid Macy's or Dillard's.  Let's be realistic for a second, dammit.  What am I buying when I get there?  a new nightgown perhaps? Whatever damned thing I'm gonna be buried in?

I can imagine the conversation with the alterations guy:  "I want you to put snaps all up and down the back, 'cause..uh....somebody else is gonna be dressing me, and for whatever reason they prefer their snaps in the back."  *eyeroll*

 If I do decide to go on a *shroud* buying spree I don't think I'd be able to stop crying. Maybe I should just to go to Hobby Lobby: "Give me 7 yards of linen.  That oughta do it, thanks. Oh, and I'll be needing a spool of Jute twine. 

For a long time I ascribed to to the Klingon thoughts on burial:  My body is but an empty shell, do with it what you will. But that assumes a whole damned tribe of Klingons is standing around wondering what the hell to do with my body. Although I still agree that yes, my body is but an empty shell, there won't be any Klingons planting me, nor will there be any ready to jettison me out of the nearest hatch.  I better come up with a more realistic plan.

Think they'd be let me be buried at Cahokia Mounds State Park in Cahokia, Illinois?  I can remember being very impressed with the Mounds when I was a little kid.  They have a crappy little museum filled with stuff they've dug up over the years.  Nothing too impressive, but it's fairly obvious it is dying for wont of government money.  I think about all they get in funding these days is enough to keep the grass mowed.  Bastards.  The white people have honored the Mississippian culture more with the painting of the giant Piasa (Pie-a-saw) on the quarry wall next to the Missisippi up in Alton.  An impressive sight if you're ever riding up along that way.

I want to be buried with my boots on. That's the only request I have really.  BOOTS ON.  The funeral people will protest.  I don't give a shit.  BOOTS ON.  Oh, and any litle oak boxes you find containing ashes of dogs.  Keep in mind the boots make me 6'3" so remember that when picking out a box.  Oh what the hell, I guess I could go box shopping. I wonder if they let you lay in them to try them on?  I hear you can order them from Costco these days - have to look into that.  You think Chinese caskets come anywhere close to 6'3" in size lol?

Macy's & Dillard's Here I Come!

I haven't been shopping in quite awhile.  Although I adore shopping, it just isn't feasible for me.  Even less feasible for me is trying on potential purchases.  It just takes too much  energy - one of my precious little commodities.  

If I really really need something, like a dress for a function, I  will order something out of a catalog, sometimes several somethings out of a catalog, and in a couple different sizes if I am unsure of fit, then return the rejects.  It usually works out, but man oh man it sure is a pain in my ass. Not to mention I have to pay for shipping both ways and sometimes a restocking fee.  And drag queens thought they had it bad.  I'm here to tell you, RuPaul has one of the best jobs on the planet.  Hrmph.

The thought just occurred to me over the last couple of days that I own a ROLLATOR!  Ok, a Rollator might not be he sexiest piece of equipment ever invented, but for shopping in a clothing store, it's practically a godsend.  It has 4 wheels, handbrakes, a seat if you get tired and need to sit down, it has a compartment under the seat to store your purse and keys.  For old or infirm people, it's the best invention since sliced pimiento loaf.

King of Pain

I was given the name of a Pain Specialist yesterday by the Cardiologist.  I called today, no one answered, and no one has called me back.  I suppose I'll call again tomorrow. 

This has become typical of every aspect of my medical treatment.  No one is ever available. Humans no longer operate the phones. People don't even count pills anymore--apparently they can't be trusted. I'm disappointed in the medical profession as a whole.  Probably worst of all, I no longer get a sucker at the end of my visits. 

NUMBNUT TECH SUPPORT

Imagine this, if you can, an echocardiogram is about like an ultrasound for a pregnant belly, except instead of taking pictures of a fetus, the thing is centered over and taking pictures of your heart. 

The last time I had an echocardiogram it was about 6 weeks after surgery. Lefty was still totally purple and black and lumpy, as well as screamy sore.   Hell, the incision next to Lefty was still oozing.  If Lefty had a mouth it would be one of those giant tragedy mouths like you'd find on the Tragedy half of the Comedy/Tragedy mask duo.

I got led to the echo room by my little tech, 23 if he was a day and trying hard not to look it with about 10 chinhairs total, of which he was very proud.  He stroked them occasionally. 

I told the little echo tech in no uncertain terms, I was SCREAMY SORE, my incision was still oozing, and he'd have to be extremely gentle with me.   In fact, I told him, I didn't want to feel anything heavier than an eyelash touching my skin.  With that, I opened the gown, he saw my glorious purple tits and he said, "OH MY GOD, DEAR SWEET JESUS, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD." 

"By your response, I guess you understand what I mean about being gentle?" "Yes, Ma'am I do, but it's gonna hurt and it's gonna hurt a lot.  There's really nothing I can do.  I'll try to be as gentle as I can, but it's not gonna help." He was almost crying.

It hurt so badly that I literally writhed and moaned throughout the entire procedure and continued to do so for about 10 minutes after it was over. It was beyond horrible.  The tech kept saying, "Oh Jesus, Oh God, Oh Jesus repeatedly, during the whole thing.  I told him I'd reach over there with my good hand and choke the life out of him with it if he didn't shut up.  Just hurry up and get it done and quit wasting time on commentary.

 I asked him if this was the first one he'd ever done.  He replied that it was the first purple one he'd ever done.  It's gonna be the LAST one you ever do of ANY color if you don't kick it up into high gear!

"I'm almost done," he says.  I have to check over here on the far left side of your ribs.   You see sometimes when they operate on a heart it  just doesn't seat right the way it did before it came out of the hole.  I sighed a giant sigh, thinking I couldn't get away from this guy and into the exam room fast enough! (They do NOT take your heart out of the hole they make in your chest, btw.)

Finally I get my turn with the doc.  I let him know he's got he's got an echo tech who needs a little more education before he's allowed to open his mouth to patients in the future.  Now all I can think of is getting home fast enough so I can take a pain pill or two.

Fast forward about 7 weeks.  The doc wants to get another echo cardiogram. I tell him NO NO NO AND NO.  I would happily take some other test, but I will never, in no uncertain terms, be taking another echo cardiogram.  Lefty is still in a screamy state and has gotten no better at all.  In fact, I tell him, I think they've done something to Lefty to permanently injure it.

He quickly agrees to a CT Scan, because in fact he wants to check out Lefty to try to see why it has been in so much pain for such a long time.

Her Redeeming Quality

Today I went to see my Primary dimwit.  Unfortunately I got into one of my stupid crying jags while I was waiting for her in the exam room.  She came in, looked me in the eye (they rarely do that) and said, "I'm sorry.  I'm so very sorry."  She took the wet and totally gross snot rag out of my hand - about 4 or 5 kleenexes I had been holding, trying to stem the tide - threw it away and handed me a whole box of them.  Then she put her arm around me and just stood next to me for a minute or so, saying nothing else.

The point is, she didn't say anything stupid like, "You're going to be ok!" or "We can fix that!"  or "You're so fucked!" and she didn't try to paint a happy face on a dire situation.  She said exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, and that alone made me feel a little bit better.

I guess I'll be keeping her on as my Primary dimwit.  She may be a little slow when it comes to diagnosing or prescribing stuff, but dammit, she has compassion.  I have specialists for everything else.  She can be my compassion specialist.

Blue Haired Old Lady

My hair isn't red anymore. It's steel gray.  The color of old women.  For the complete effect, I'm going to have to investigate some blue rinse for my hair and start riding lower in my car seat, so my view approximates what I can see between the dashboard and the top of the steering wheel.  My heart did that to me - gave me gray hair, and turned me into an old woman. Instantly.

My hair has grown from an unfortunate Romulan haircut at the beginning of the year, into an unfortunate Justin Bieber cut.  If combed correctly I look just like him, only about 40 years older.  I'm thinking of shaving my head so I can look like a schnauzer, but somehow I don't think my eyebrows would cooperate.

This was not an intentionally bad photo, by the way.  I took about 30 of them and it was the best of the lot.  My hand is covering the IV port in my neck which looks ugly at best.  You intentionally do not see any bruising or chest scarring.  Trust me it's there.  Trust me it's purple.  Trust me, I want to cry every time I see it.  I can't wait for turtleneck season.

How I Hate Thee, Snackwell Cookies

I've been dying for a damned cookie for weeks. My very first blog entry mentions cookies, in fact.  So for at least that long I have been hungering for a cookie.  Soon I will sprout wild blue hair and two googly eyes if my cookie jones is not addressed immediately.  ME WANT COOKIE!

I bought a box of Snackwell Devil's Food Chocolate Cake cookies.  They are fat free. "Wonderful," I think, since fat is now my enemy, particularly saturated fat, the type usually found in cookies (butter). The cookies are ok.  Just ok.  I wouldn't kill for them or anything.  They didn't even satisfy my cookie jones, since I really prefer crispy cookies. 

In addition to being fat free, these particular cookies pack a powerful 12 grams of carbohydrate EACH.  That means a mere two of these "just ok" cookies are an entire day's bread ration.  It's not like I can put a slice of chicken between two of them with a dab of mustard and make a damned sandwich.  I am really disappointed with these evil, evil cookies.  Fie on you, Snackwell Cookie Company!

Egypt oh Egypt

One thing that was on my original bucket list was visiting Egypt.  Since I was a small child I have always wanted to go there.  With the recent unrest, travel to Egypt is all but impossible, not to mention looters have F-ed up the big museum, stolen a few things, smashed a few others.  It's a mess, and they should be ashamed of themselves, and then they should be executed for destroying national treasures.  On the other hand, the middle east has always been a hot spot and you take your life into your own hands any time you travel there.

I have this wonderful idea.  Dr. Zahi Hawass annoys me.  He annoys me a lot. Ever since he began inserting his face into anything that is remotely connected to Egypt, he just makes my skin crawl.  He is Egypt's Jesse Jackson.

My master plan is to write him an official-looking letter, tell him I am leaving the museum $5 million in my will, and insist that he give me a personal tour of the museum, all the remote sites, like Tut's Tomb, the Valley of the Kings, and any digs that are now in progress.  I expect him to wait on me hand and foot for the roughly 30 days I wish to spend there.  Of course I will be in the best hotel, and insist on having my own personal chef so I won't get some wretched parasite or fungus, etc.  Assuming I can survive the extra long plane ride without getting any monster clots, it just might work! 

"Dear Dr. Hawass, I am a very sick woman, yada yada, $5 mil, yada yada....

I get to see Egypt, a land I have loved since childhood, and humiliate that turd, Zahi Hawass while doing it.  Ahhh good times.

Primary Dimwit

It's 4:00AM again.  I have no idea why my internal clock is so damned precise.  I wish the rest of me was just as precise. 

Lately, I've been having these strange transient bouts of really feeling bad...really weak and faint--like if I wasn't sitting down, I'd fall over.  Sometimes if I eat something or have a glass of juice, I feel ok after a bit, but not always.  I have to remember to mention this next time I go somewhere. I don't think it's a blood sugar problem, I think it's something else.

I also wonder why it is that I feel so damned awful when I first wake up in the morning? I tend to feel a little better as the day wears on, but first thing I'm a true mess. I can't even walk right - I kinda stumble around, holding onto things as I go. Even the dogs have the good sense to not get too close to me at this point, lest I fall or trip over them.  Maybe this is another medication error, now that I think of it.

I am seeing my Primary Physician Monday for the first time since all my heart business.  I don't have a lot of faith in her. She was convinced my heart was fine due to my beautiful EKGs.  She attempted to feed me antibiotics and prednisone thinking I had a bad chest infection that was making  breathing difficult. After that particular visit,  I booked myself into a cardiologist and a skillion tests and a week later I was having surgery.  So much for my chest infection. 

She's good for ear aches, sore throats and flu shots, but that's about it.   In fact, it's probably time to find a new Primary.  Too bad, too because she's only a couple blocks away from the house and it's easy to get an appointment almost immediately if that's what I need.  Really, I guess my only complaint is that she's a dimwit.  *sigh*

OOO I'm so excited - it's not supposed to be so damned hot today!  I may even get to harvest some of the poop crop from my fragrant garden!  Trust me, the last thing on my mind was dog crap, while I've been so sick, but it's at the point where it can no longer be ignored.  Yuck.  Too bad they don't have thumbs - I'd make them rake up their own poop.  Hrmph!  What I'd really like is to get the Primary dimwit over here to do a little poop raking.

Elvis, is that you?

Tuesday night while waiting for my drugs at Walgreens, Elvis was in front of me in line.  It was midnightish, so I was forced to go to the one 24-hour Walgreens in town.  There he was, all black hair, big sideburns and sunglasses, and getting his high blood pressure meds filled.  I swon.  He even said, "Thank you, thank you very much."

This is Elvis Week in Memphis, so the entire city is crawling with assorted Elvii.  I woulda laughed at him, but I hurt too much.  Probably just as well, I wouldn't want to offend the king or anything.  *eyeroll*

I can never remember to take a photo until the moment has passed.  I need to start wearing my camera around my neck all the time, like a Japanese tourist.

Operating Room Humor

People often ask
Why I joke and laugh so much
It's so I won't scream

(bad Haiku #138)

At the ER on Tuesday I asked for, and got, a hard copy of my chest X-rays. I need to figure out a way to post them here, because they are truly amazing, if not bordering on hilarious.

I am unable to see any little veiny things or spare arteries sticking out of the heart - which would be the actual bypasses.  What I can see, though, is very surprising:  The wire sutures which are holding my sternum together. 

As a whole it looks exactly like the lacing on a roller skate, complete with a two-loop bow at the top.  I kid you not, some asshole tied a friggin BOW on my sternum.  WTH?

Who thought it would be a good idea to do that?  Do all women get bows on their sternums or do men get it too?  Maybe men get a manly square knot or something similar.  I want to laugh, cry, scream, and punch the responsible person in the face all at the same time.

Addendum:  I have to figure out how to backlight the X-Ray so it can be seen in order to take a photo to post.  It is the old fashioned black film kind of X-Ray - very dark looking until it is backlit....working on it!  lol

ER ADVENTURE

Yesterday afternoon after I just couldn't take the pain any longer, I went to the ER.  Because I had recently had a CABG and had chest-related pain, I got the full cardiac work up.  They remarked at what a "beautiful EKG" I had  *eyeroll.*  (I am beginning to think all these beautiful EKGs mean absolutely nothing.)

They took about eight tubes of blood for various tests, the levels of one tube apparently indicating I had a clot, so I wound up staying at the ER around seven hours while they sorted out the clot business, which included a set of X-Rays and a CT scan with contrast.  Try as they might, they found no clot, so they removed my IVs, gave me a script for oxy, and finally shoved me out the door. 

I should have enough pain medication to last until the prodigal doctor returns.  As soon as I see him he will get the tongue-lashing of his life.  I will make him beg me to forgive him.  I may even make him kiss my shoe. (Yes, I am THAT angry.)

I still have a lot of phone work in the coming few days to accomplish...such as getting a hold of "Nurse Ratched" to set up the pain specialist appointment, and making sure all my ER stuff transfers to the doctor's office. 

This recent fubar makes me wonder what happens to the patients who aren't able to fend for themselves, or don't have a patient advocate, or trust in their doctors a litle too much to not question what they do.  I shudder to think.

&$#@)*?%**&^#@

I am becoming more and more agitated that I can't reach the doctor, or the doctor's nurse, or anybody who gives a damn, for that matter.  The thought comes to mind that they are blowing me off because I need pain pills.  They could also be blowing me off because I've become their "squeeky wheel."  Too damned bad, because I intend to squeek for as long as it takes.  There is not enough WD-40 in the world to shut me up, dammit.

The older and weaker I get I notice the longer something like this takes to get done.  Ten years ago, they would have been kowtowing at my feet.  Sweet Jesus on a pony...I wonder how much disrespect I'd get if I was an actual senior citizen.

If I thought I could actually sit in a chair for 10 hours a day, I'd go apply to be their office manager.  Wouldn't they all just shit golden bricks at the mere thought?

Ok, 46 minutes on the phone has gotten me nowhere.  It's time to get dressed--yes, that means putting on the torturous bra, to go there in person.  More later if I make it back in one piece.


10:52 AM
YAY  just as I was walking out the door, my phone rang.  How fortuitous. The nurse agreed with me, that Ultram and antidepressants don't mix, causing what's called serotonin syndrome and major seizure risk. DOH! how many people have they given this combination to before me, since I'm apparently the first one to notice its ill effects?  WTF?

Bad news, the doctor is out of town this week, so will have to fax a pain script from wheverever he is.  Who knows how long that'll take. I have a feeling it won't be today.  In the meantime they are working to get me into a pain specialist.

I have a sudden urge to go door to door and see what kind of pain pills exist in the neighborhood and would they be willing to part with them for a small fee.  On the other hand, my neighbors wouldn't lend me a cup of water if I was ON FIRE.  I guess I'll be staying inside, miserable and braless.

Like Pulling Teeth

Great, apparently I cannot just walk into a pain clinic and be treated. I have to have a referral from either the Cardiologist or the Surgeon.  I swear to God, getting the treatment and drugs I need is like pulling teeth...and not those wimpy baby teeth either...I mean those big four-prong molars--the old knee in the chest type pulling of teeth.

I called my Cardiologist's nurse this morning and left a message.  I called her twice last week and left a message.  She is the one who was supposed to research the incompatibility between Ultram and Prozac.  Whatever.  If there is a warning label on the damned bottle, I'm pretty sure it's been researched out the ass.

I just want to not hurt.  I just want to go to sleep.  Then after that, I just want to be left alone.  Is that too damned much to ask?

Pain Management vs Depression Management

Ultram is used in the management of moderate to moderately severe pain. Extended release tablets are used for moderate to moderately severe chronic pain in adults who require continuous treatment for an extended period.  Ultram supposedly acts like an opiate but is not a narcotic.

I had to stop taking my antidepressants in order to take this drug, since they don't mix.  I am severely depressed.  SEVERELY.  This is not good.  Don't they get it?  The thought of being without pain meds just frosts my balls.  *sigh* The thought of being without antidepressants just frosts my balls. 

Why do I have to choose? Surely among the friggin THOUSANDS of drugs there must be some pain pill I can take with my damned antidepressants.  I can't stop crying now as it is.  What's gonna happen to me when the antidepressant totally works its way out of my system?

Look at this photo and tell me I don't need a goddammed pain pill. The difference now is my drain holes have finally closed and are no longer leaking. And everything is just a little lighter in color, but still discolored - more in the brownish range. My boobs are friggin KILLIN me. Especially Lefty.  Poor Lefty--it'll never be the same. My entire chest is screamy sore... emphasis on the screamy.

I think I'll start calling around for a pain specialist.  Tomorrow.

More Taste

I found a frozen bag of 8o'clock Hazelnut Coffee in the freezer.  Although it does not taste like regular coffee, I am happy to report it does not taste like a cup of wet ashes.

I thought I might start drinking hot tea, since I am having such trouble with coffee.  Tea is ok, but if I drink more than a couple cups, it gives me the shakes, not to mention it just doesn't satisfy me like a cup of coffee does.  Besides, in the past I have always reserved hot tea for those days when I was sick in bed with some form of *zorch*..the latest version of cold or flu. So the first thing hot tea reminds me of is sickness.  Ugh.

I WANT something.  I don't know what it is, but I WANT it.  I know it does not exist on that pitiful damned list I got from the doctor, which is mostly filled with oats and boiled chicken breasts, and various disgusting green things.

Nowhere on the list is butter, oil or salad dressing.  Not even the *diet* kind because it has too much sodium.  I actually enjoy eating green salad with fresh lemon juice as a dressing - but for that I require salt.  SHIT.  I can't stand it.  Who can eat like that?  Let me rephrase:  Who can eat like that and enjoy it?

I can have no more than 12 grams of fat per day.  I used to put that in my morning coffee alone.  The next time you sit down with your coffee creamer nearby, check out the fat content and serving size.  You'll be surprised.

Wet Ashes and Copper Pennies

It's 4:00AM again.  I do this without an alarm clock.  It's not like I have anywhere to go.  I haven't had an actual 9-5 clock punching job since 1991. And besides, it's Saturday. I don't need to get up, and yet I continue to do it.  Most often at 4:00, sometimes earlier.  I don't know how to stop doing it. Now that I think of it, I don't know how to stop doing a lot of things.

Just like my doctor who without fail says to me "You're going to be ok!"  He doesn't know how to stop saying it.  He's probabaly said it since he was an intern.  You know what? He's right: Either way, live or die, I'll be ok.  Either option means an end to pain.

I feel so bad.  Every day instead of feeling just a little bit better, I feel just a little bit worse.  I don't expect to last very long.  I don't think there's much they can do for me.  Had they caught it with the initial heart attack three years ago, I might be better now.  No way to tell.  In fact, knowing what I know now, I'm very surprised I lasted this long.  All they can do is feed me drugs and hope something works.

I started this blog as a kind of verbal bucket list, since I am quite beyond doing anything physical from my *other* bucket list. 

Hell, it's an EXCELLENT day if I can go to Walmart and ride one of their goofy handicapped scooters and manage to get home before keeling over. I don't know why I even bother to go to Walmart, since I can't taste a damned thing I buy anyway. 

My sense of taste has been so corrupted, I can taste two things that still taste like they did before:  Coke and sour gummi worms.  Jesus.  Everything else either tastes like wet ashes or a handful of copper pennies. I lost 23 lbs since I came home since I can't bring myself to eat wet ashes and pennies.  Even my toothpaste tastes like ashes.  I know it's spearmint - I can still smell it.

Ok, lets weigh the pros and cons in no particular order:  I am in horrible pain much of the time. If I make any movements out of the limited ordinary, I am in worse pain.  The list of food items I am allowed to eat has been drastically reduced.  I cannot taste the food items I am allowed to eat.  I can have no alcohol whatsoever. The drugs they give me are nausea inducing. They are cutting back on my pain pills.  I don't have sex.  I am still alive.  (That's only one pro.)

Broken

I just don't know how
To stop being always sad
I am broken now

(Bad Haiku #137)

Bra = Reason

This morning at around 6:30ish - the news was still on and Good Morning America hadn't yet started - I put on clothing.  I mean I got completely dressed. I put on a pink tee-shirt and denim shorts.  I even put on a torturous bra....geezo my boobs still hurt a LOT so putting on a bra is an actual ordeal.

I had to have had a reason for getting dressed, because if I can avoid putting on a bra, I will.  This reason must have included leaving the house, due to the presence of the bra. I refuse to be seen in public without a bra. Ever.

Apparently I laid back down in the nest shortly after getting dressed and went to sleep.  There is a quart of skim milk still sitting out on the counter from this morning.  (WTF? I never leave milk out.) And now, the reason I got dressed in the first place escapes me.

I MUST have had pressing business?  The bank?  no.  The doctor? no.  The pharmacy or dispensary? no.  I have gotten no phone calls saying, "You're late, bitch, wtf?" 

I tell you, the bra proves there was SOME reason...now if I can just think of it.  ::Pulls out clumps of hair ala Larry-the-Stooge::

Raindance

I hear the thunder
Oh please stop over my house
Raindrops needed here!

(bad Haiku #136)

The willow is protesting by furiously dropping leaves.  The grass has gone crispy in parts, and dormant in others.  Monster heat and no rain combine to make one thing.  That one thing is "brown."

I'm just too weak and feeble to drag the hose around. The willow tree experiment proved that the other day.  I hate to watch stuff wither and die right before my eyes, but I really can do nothing.  Except hope it rains. 

The Tree Strikes Back

There has been a huge, looming dead tree standing about 10-15 feet beyond my back fence for at least the last four years.  Giant reaching limbs hang over the fence like a huge gnarly hand--the tree from the movie "Poltergeist" comes to mind.  The dead tree can actually be seen in the photo I took of the kid who mowed my lawn (back when I had a kid who mowed my lawn). 

I don't remember what kind of tree it was when alive, or even if I ever knew, since I can only remember it being dead.  It had a fairly thick trunk and stood about 60 to 70 feet tall.  The *wild* trees that grow in that stand are black oak and sweet gum, so it was more than likely one of those.  I'm not sure if disease got it, or it was another victim of the killer heat/drought we've been having for the last several years.

Last week, in fact, I had called a tree service to provide an estimate for having it taken down.  They wanted - get this - $700 to cut it down and leave it where it fell, or $1,000 to cut it down and haul it away.  The nerve!  I said I'd have to get back to them. ::snort::

Sometime during the night last night, the tree fell.  I can now answer the age old question, "If a tree falls in the forest does it make a sound?"  The answer is "no."

I let the dogs out this morning and the first thing I saw was a missing piece of fence.  The next thing I noticed was the absent tree.  While it saved $700-1,000 in tree fees, the fence will cost something to replace, but comparatively not much. 

All I know is I'm glad I was not standing under it when it happened.  With my luck, I'm sure the tree would have taken aim for the top of my head.

Oww Dammit

After boasting yesterday about my new and exciting sleep patterns, I can't sleep at all tonight.  I tossed about for almost two hours, got up, took additional pain meds, tossed for another hour then just decided to stay up.  It's now 3:00AM, and my ribs/chest won't let me sleep at all. 

It actually eases my chest pain somewhat if I sit up straight with my back against a chair or the couch. Laying down puts pressure on my ribs and makes them ache. Too bad I can't sleep standing up like a horse.

Apparently I pay dearly for just about any movement I make during the day. The movement that caused this particular ache was an attempt to water my weeping willow tree, which has been dropping leaves like crazy.  It's important that I save this tree, one, because it cost a couple hundred dollars, two, it's the only remaining tree in the back yard, and three, willows grow fast and it has already reached a nice size.  Last year I lost two yellow poplars to the killer heat and drought.

I was extra careful to move slowly, with no sudden jerks or twists, etc... unrolled about three loops of hose, dragged it, unrolled, dragged, etc.  The hose was already outside, hanging on a hose thing attached to the outer wall of the house and the tree is only about twenty feet away from the hose source.  Twenty feet of unrolling and dragging was enough to lay me low.

The weather doofus is predicting killer heat today - over 100 degrees, with a heat index of around 112ish. The Tennessee Valley suddenly thinks it's Death Valley.  I have been warned by the doc to stay out of the heat for any length of time.  90 degrees is the cutoff point for the heart people.

I'll be staying indoors, and shoving dogs outside periodically.  There is no mistaking they are inside dogs.  They automatically do their business and line up at the door as soon as they're done when it's this hot, wanting in immediately, foregoing the 112 degree outside water in preference of the 72 degree inside water.  They have trained me to let them in as soon as possible.


Addendum:  The actual temperature was a record setting 106, with a heat index of 125.  It was officially hotter in Memphis than it was in the Sahara.

Into the Arms of Morpheus

I started taking the sleeping pills the doc gave me. I am getting actual sleep that happens at normal bedtime.

They are very mild sleeping pills - Dalmane, but they appear to have done the trick.  I'm kind of excited.  I still wake up around 4am in pain, but I expected that because it's about when the pain pill dose wears off.  I also wake up if I need to turn over, since that actually causes a *different* huge pain too.  I'm still a wreck, but at least now I have a chance to sleep.

Since I can now compare actual sleep and the weird *non-sleep* I was having, there is a enormous difference between the two.  My brain would try to dream, but it would incorporate *awake* items into it.  For instance, if the TV was on, the same program would be playing in my dream.  If the phone would ring, I would have a goofy half asleep phone conversation.  I even sleep-texted an entire conversation about Spongebob Squarepants.  (I have never watched even one episode of Spongebob Squarepants.)

I would dream about people and think they were actually in my living room. (I wondered why the dogs were never upset.) Dreaming about people visiting didn't worry me until I started dreaming about dead people and past events. I didn't realize I had been dreaming until something else would happen to jar me out of it: The IM sound, or a TV commercial, for example.

I hadn't had actual, restful sleep or a normal dream for almost three months.  No wonder I've been such a mess.  I only get one refill, so I can't get overly fond of them (dammit).

Seven-Eleven, HA!

I have gotten more than a few jobs on the strength of my personality alone. I have always been a "take charge," confident, assertive type of person.  I'd be the one barking orders in a crisis.

I have been in my share of fist fights with both men and women.  I once pulled a grown man out of the window of the cab of a truck just so I could beat his ass.  I'm not kidding. (He needed an ass beating, trust me.)  I was in my 20s when that happened and have mellowed a bit since then, but there is still very little that intimidates me.

For the first time in my life, I'm afraid--not just worried, truly afraid.  My own heart is standing with its foot on my neck, having beaten me down, my spirit vanquished.

I'm not afraid of dying, mind you. Dying is a piece of cake - one minute you're here, the next you're not.  End of story.

I am afraid of living:  I'm afraid of being helpless and at the mercy of some minimum wage lackey. I'm afraid of unending, unstoppable, untreatable pain. I'm afraid of running out of money or insurance.  I am afraid of being mistreated and not being able to fight back, my shitty heart effectively tying my hands.

Then there are the dogs, and a whole different, but similar set of fears come into play with them.

You see, I do not believe in the kindness of strangers and I do not believe that people are inherently good--most people are assholes.  Life is just a big crap shoot, and right now mama needs a new pair of shoes more than ever before.