This post was written in July of 2016. A lot has changed since then, but you will need this information before I can continue with the rest of the story:
I have essentially been stuck in a time bubble since a tragic event on May 11, 2013. Waiting, waiting, ever so impatiently to get SOME kind of settlement. I am living on credit cards. Disability check covers the bare essentials, that's all...even my drugs go on a credit card. It's bad. I would file for bankruptcy, but anything I get settlement-wise would then just go away. At minimum I had hoped to at least be able to cover the expenses I had incurred but who knows when that will be?
In the meantime, everyone is getting testy. Doctors haven't been paid in 3 years and they're pissed. I am sick of 29 cent mac & cheese and peanut butter on saltines. I look like something that just crawled out of Auschwitz. I have lost enough weight to make up an entirely new person. I had to buy pants and shirts because everything, every bit of clothing I had no longer fits -- it just hangs on me like a scarecrow. I am dodging collection phone calls. I stopped opening mail about 2 years ago because all it does is depress me.
What about the arm that is now rendered useless? What about my goddamned leg? I've been to 4 different orthopedic surgeons and nobody will touch the leg. I fucking BATTLED to save that leg once...and now that battle means nothing. I have a broken leg that will be permanently broken and disfigured. It doesn't even look like a human leg anymore.
The car I had been driving was entirely paid for -- in the clear and still had more than half of its warranty left. Gone, all gone in an instant. And now I'm in the hole for 8k for a replacement car that actually cost less than the car I was driving. It is just so WRONG and unfair. I'm pissed, depressed, sick and in even more pain than I was to begin with.
Meanwhile my hole gets deeper.
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
THE THINGS WE FEAR
St. Louis is a big city made up of little towns. Today we would call them communities. The little *towns* were bigger than neighborhoods, in that several neighborhoods would share a shopping district, consisting of a couple of blocks of stores. St. Louisans of my generation will know what "shopping on Meramec, Shopping on Cherokee," or even "Shopping at Hampton Village," and "Shopping in the West End" means. Those were places that were once their own towns, before being swallowed up by the city limits Something I miss from my youth--something I truly miss, is window shopping. Window shopping is now a lost art. We did it so often that we even invented a special *family* term for it. The special term was "Eye-Buying." We were fearless and ruthless window shoppers/Eye-Buyers! If that would happen today, we'd be run right out of the store--possibly even detained as suspected shoplifters.
Eye-Buying was something to do with an agenda that involved nothing more than looking into the windows of shops to see what they had. Sometimes if the window looked really REALLY good, we'd go inside and try things on with the full knowledge we'd never be able to pay for those things. It was more akin to playing dress-up in someone else's closet, only with brand new clothing. We were never afraid to try on something beautiful just for the sake of trying it on! We were allowed to do this, I'm sure, because if we liked something we'd be back with a parent to buy it. That would never happen in any upscale store today. It wouldn't happen because store owners are afraid of inventory loss. Ohhh noooo, we musn't tamper with the bottom line!!
Some days we might only have a dollar or two in our pockets. We may have gotten a soda at a soda fountain, or some days we would go so far as to have lunch at "Wag's" or "Katz Drugstore's" lunch counter. If it was an actual shopping trip, we may have even splurged and had luncheon at Styx, Baer & Fuller or at Famous-Barr Southtown (damn, I really miss that store). Styx and Famous both had actual restaurants with linen on the tables--far better than a paper placemat. Today's stores forget the customer's comfort: Just get them in and out so more people can come in and out and buy more things! Large department stores with every available amenity are a thing of the past because corporations fear loss of any kind to their bottom line.
If it was an all out event, we'd go downtown, where all the biggest and best and usually most expensive stores and items were. That normally required taking the bus and a lot of heavy-duty outerwear, since it was usually at Christmas Time. The window dressings were marvelous, especially the ones that featured toys, because we all knew that everything there was something a rich kid might see under the tree at Christmas. If we were lucky, we might get ONE of those things from that particular window. As I got older, I noticed what the manikins were wearing and how they were posed and decorated. I believe window dressing is a lost art as well. Store windows are usually covered or painted to average human head-height. They are painted to discourage any planned shoplifters or would-be robbers. Paint provides a screen against communication with the outside. Corporations fear theft, and that now matters more than "in sight it must be right."
As a really young girl...before I ever went to school, I remember going downtown with my grandma. She would *call a car,* her term for calling a cab, and we would go downtown with a mission. It always, always involved having a nice lunch somewhere. Interestingly enough, she didn't know how to drive a car, even though we had one -- and a nice one, at that. She told me it wasn't ladylike to drive in her time. Being ladylike was how women survived in a misogynistic world. Men were afraid of losing power.
.
Eye-Buying with my grandmother was an entirely different experience than when I went with other kids. While my grandpa was still alive, we would peer into the windows. If she saw something she liked, we'd go in and look around. At every store, people there would know her. "Hello, Mrs. *******, how nice to have you back in our store again! What may I help you with today?" Those were still the days when my family name meant something to damned near everyone in the city. Those were also the days when being a sales clerk meant you had to have manners and respect for your customers. Sales clerks respected their lady clientele because if they didn't, a lady's husband would be right down there to push their faces in for them, at best. At worst, the husbands would have a word with their boss. The clerk was afraid of losing his job even more than being worried about having his own face pushed in.
It was great fun to go on adventures with my grandma, she was powerful in her own right, and I was never afraid when I was with her. She was a five-foot-two, brick house dynamo! Men fell over themselves trying to serve her. She was fully AWARE of the power she wielded, and yet it was subtle. She never barked orders like a drill sergeant, all she had to do was lift an eyebrow. She was a powerful woman who never left the house without stockings and heels, or a hat and gloves! She was beautiful. A man at her funeral told me she was *movie star beautiful.* Men and women alike both coveted her beauty and feared it.
After my grandpa died, my grandmother just sort of shriveled up into herself. She outlived my grandfather by thirty years. The only time she left the house was if someone took her, or if I had to go to the doctor, we'd take a cab during the day. Eye-Buying for her was then only done from catalogs or newspaper ads. She might have walked all of 50 yards total to the dairy, or the neighborhood delicatessen, and only then if it was absolutely necessary. She became reclusive. Nearly everything she did was done over the phone. Unless, as I said, someone came to pry her out of the house. Her beautiful, naturally platinum hair began to gradually dull and was ash-blonde at the time of her death. Sadness and loss took away her beauty. Fear took away her power.
Perhaps if she had only learned how to drive, that wouldn't have happened to her. Long after "being ladylike" didn't matter as much, and by the time that most women were driving, there was too much traffic and it scared her. The thought of driving a car scared her. Driving an 18 or 19 hands high carriage horse didn't scare her though, and it took more moxie and finesse to drive them. Riding one of them with a sidesaddle (A SIDESADDLE!) didn't scare her either--I'm not talking about Hackneys here -- any four-legged equine was putty in her hands. Odd isn't it, the things we fear?
Eye-Buying was something to do with an agenda that involved nothing more than looking into the windows of shops to see what they had. Sometimes if the window looked really REALLY good, we'd go inside and try things on with the full knowledge we'd never be able to pay for those things. It was more akin to playing dress-up in someone else's closet, only with brand new clothing. We were never afraid to try on something beautiful just for the sake of trying it on! We were allowed to do this, I'm sure, because if we liked something we'd be back with a parent to buy it. That would never happen in any upscale store today. It wouldn't happen because store owners are afraid of inventory loss. Ohhh noooo, we musn't tamper with the bottom line!!
Some days we might only have a dollar or two in our pockets. We may have gotten a soda at a soda fountain, or some days we would go so far as to have lunch at "Wag's" or "Katz Drugstore's" lunch counter. If it was an actual shopping trip, we may have even splurged and had luncheon at Styx, Baer & Fuller or at Famous-Barr Southtown (damn, I really miss that store). Styx and Famous both had actual restaurants with linen on the tables--far better than a paper placemat. Today's stores forget the customer's comfort: Just get them in and out so more people can come in and out and buy more things! Large department stores with every available amenity are a thing of the past because corporations fear loss of any kind to their bottom line.
If it was an all out event, we'd go downtown, where all the biggest and best and usually most expensive stores and items were. That normally required taking the bus and a lot of heavy-duty outerwear, since it was usually at Christmas Time. The window dressings were marvelous, especially the ones that featured toys, because we all knew that everything there was something a rich kid might see under the tree at Christmas. If we were lucky, we might get ONE of those things from that particular window. As I got older, I noticed what the manikins were wearing and how they were posed and decorated. I believe window dressing is a lost art as well. Store windows are usually covered or painted to average human head-height. They are painted to discourage any planned shoplifters or would-be robbers. Paint provides a screen against communication with the outside. Corporations fear theft, and that now matters more than "in sight it must be right."
As a really young girl...before I ever went to school, I remember going downtown with my grandma. She would *call a car,* her term for calling a cab, and we would go downtown with a mission. It always, always involved having a nice lunch somewhere. Interestingly enough, she didn't know how to drive a car, even though we had one -- and a nice one, at that. She told me it wasn't ladylike to drive in her time. Being ladylike was how women survived in a misogynistic world. Men were afraid of losing power.
.
Eye-Buying with my grandmother was an entirely different experience than when I went with other kids. While my grandpa was still alive, we would peer into the windows. If she saw something she liked, we'd go in and look around. At every store, people there would know her. "Hello, Mrs. *******, how nice to have you back in our store again! What may I help you with today?" Those were still the days when my family name meant something to damned near everyone in the city. Those were also the days when being a sales clerk meant you had to have manners and respect for your customers. Sales clerks respected their lady clientele because if they didn't, a lady's husband would be right down there to push their faces in for them, at best. At worst, the husbands would have a word with their boss. The clerk was afraid of losing his job even more than being worried about having his own face pushed in.
It was great fun to go on adventures with my grandma, she was powerful in her own right, and I was never afraid when I was with her. She was a five-foot-two, brick house dynamo! Men fell over themselves trying to serve her. She was fully AWARE of the power she wielded, and yet it was subtle. She never barked orders like a drill sergeant, all she had to do was lift an eyebrow. She was a powerful woman who never left the house without stockings and heels, or a hat and gloves! She was beautiful. A man at her funeral told me she was *movie star beautiful.* Men and women alike both coveted her beauty and feared it.
After my grandpa died, my grandmother just sort of shriveled up into herself. She outlived my grandfather by thirty years. The only time she left the house was if someone took her, or if I had to go to the doctor, we'd take a cab during the day. Eye-Buying for her was then only done from catalogs or newspaper ads. She might have walked all of 50 yards total to the dairy, or the neighborhood delicatessen, and only then if it was absolutely necessary. She became reclusive. Nearly everything she did was done over the phone. Unless, as I said, someone came to pry her out of the house. Her beautiful, naturally platinum hair began to gradually dull and was ash-blonde at the time of her death. Sadness and loss took away her beauty. Fear took away her power.
Perhaps if she had only learned how to drive, that wouldn't have happened to her. Long after "being ladylike" didn't matter as much, and by the time that most women were driving, there was too much traffic and it scared her. The thought of driving a car scared her. Driving an 18 or 19 hands high carriage horse didn't scare her though, and it took more moxie and finesse to drive them. Riding one of them with a sidesaddle (A SIDESADDLE!) didn't scare her either--I'm not talking about Hackneys here -- any four-legged equine was putty in her hands. Odd isn't it, the things we fear?
Friday, March 25, 2016
MY OTHER *FRIEND* IS A SADIST!
I have had a male friend for a few months shy of thirty years. When I first met him, he was heading a major, nationally traded company. I was pirated from my firm by a headhunter to come in for an interview. I told him on that interview day that he would hire me and all the reasons why. I went to the interview with my boot on his neck and I knew I already had the upper hand. I had liked my then-current job. The pay was good, I worked, I had benefits, the hours were flexible, I had my own office and a staff of 22. I decided I would toy with him and have a little fun while I was doing it. It totally worked!! I told him how much he would pay me, how much my commission would be, how many vacation days I would get, etc. We both stood up, shook hands like "men," and then I told him he wouldn't be seeing me until the first of next month because I intended to take a vacation before I started since I hadn't had one in over five years. I also told him I wanted time to buy some new suits with the hiring bonus check he was going to write for me before I left that day. I was a hot commodity and I knew it. He needed ME even more than he needed the staff and clients I would bring with me. I got everything I asked for and more.
Two years into my employment there, I began to get sick. Really sick. I went to specialist after specialist. I was out sick more days than I was in the office and at my desk. I tried tele-commuting for several months, which ended with a lengthy stay at a hospital where I was put on a respirator. I had lost the ability to breathe on my own.
A few more months went by and I finally got the diagnosis of "Myasthenia Gravis." I was put on a massive dose of steroids and other drugs, weaned off the respirator, and sent home in a deep depression where I cocooned myself and applied for long-term disability. It had been my good fortune to opt for the maximum insurance policy when given the choice at the point of hiring. Incidentally, the long-term steroid dosing contributed to ruining my heart. Steroids for me were a wretched catch-22, since I needed them to live through the MG crises, but they were killing my heart in the process.
I could no longer sit up in an office chair for 8 or more hours a day. Some days I wasn't even strong enough to lift my head. Other days I found I could not speak...the vocal chords are muscles, of course, and MG is a neuro-muscular disease. It got to the point that I never knew which part of me wouldn't work each morning I woke.
During that time I found out just what a good friend he was. He would often pick me up and take me places where I wouldn't have been able to go by myself. He would bring me groceries. He would buy, and deliver prescriptions if I didn't have cash available. He brought me books and movies and even a new TV when mine rolled belly up, so my mind would stay active.
He took me to a number of book signings that, even though I was no longer technically working, he made sure I got paid for my time in cash. He bought me a wheelchair and personally pushed me 2 blocks uphill to get to a bookstore because that was the closest he could park since the author was a best seller, was there for a signing, so she drew a big crowd. He *NEEDED* me to be there--this author and I had history. Back then I could have recited by memory every single one of her books I had had, and he himself only knew one trilogy by this author under a different nom de plume she used when writing in a particular style.
If he had me with him, he got to go to the head of the class, right up front, directly to the table...no standing in line, no madding crowd, no toddlers alternating between eating boogers and screaming as their mothers dragged them along in strollers, or on child-sized harnesses and leashes .At some point, early into my disability, my former boss became my best friend and we have stayed friends all these years.
We had worked together as colleagues, and we have also been business partners, this man and I over the years, have started two companies together after I retired with my disability, and he quit the initial company that had brought us together. And, of course, we were for the longest time, best friends. He told me I was, in fact, his ONLY friend, not just his best friend, and the only completely trust worthy person he knew.
For almost thirty years we have talked several times a week on the phone, sometimes several times daily, and at any and all hours of the day and night. Just before last Christmas when I was having anxiety attacks, he told me, "You can call me any time, ANY TIME, day or night. I sleep with my phone right next to my head. I will always be there for you. He told me a few years back that he had often wished I was his wife and confessed that he had married the wrong person.
After 15 years, my myasthenia was finally under control with medication, and only became potentially "gravis," or deadly, if I had a concurrent active illness. I left the state due to another job, only to be brought down by a new illness.
When he found out I was going to have heart surgery he told me to make sure he was notified immediately if something happened to me, and if my health suddenly took a turn for the worse. We discussed wills and living wills. There was not one subject that was ever off limits. We could talk about anything.
The last time I talked to him he had told me his own health was getting worse. He said he had the alarming symptom of enormously swollen legs..that morning he had awakened and his legs were so swollen he couldn't even put his pants on and had to have his wife go out and buy some giant sweat pants just so he could get to the doctor later that day. I begged him to go to the Emergency Room at the local hospital, because the first thing that came to my mind when he told me of his alarming symptom, was the health of his heart. That was the day before New Year's Eve, 2015. At the end of the first week of January, I realized I hadn't heard from him. I had assumed I would hear from him later that day, or the next day at the latest, that he was probably dealing with whatever illness he had and wanted to be left alone.
Several days went by and still he had not phoned me. I tried to call him the next day, and the next, and on the third day...no answer to any of my calls. I became alarmed. I called every day that week. Each time, no answer. I sent emails to all the accounts I knew he had from all the accounts that I have myself...no answer. After that first week and the flurry of unanswered phone calls I began to think the worst. I called at least once, maybe twice a week thereafter.
When my Uncle/Brother Mikey died, on January 23rd, I thought at the time I would be in his city for the funeral. I again called him, leaving a message about the death and saying I would be in town for the funeral and I wanted to meet. No response. The following week I called a few more times until the last call I made went straight to his voice mail.
I sent another volley of emails, short and to the point, subject line: WHERE ARE YOU? The body of the emails said, "I can only assume that something bad has happened to you. The last time we spoke you were worried about your grossly swollen legs and I was actually worried about your heart. PLEASE contact me to let me know what has happened!" He had admitted to me late last year during one of our regular phone calls that he had gained over 150 pounds since we had last seen each other, so I was definitely worried about his heart.
Yesterday morning, March 13, 2016, I finally got a response from his main email account stating the following: "I just got back from Hong Kong. Stop trying to contact me." The most brief response I had ever gotten from him in the entire 30 years.
WHAT. THE. HELL? What friend sends an email like that? Does this make any kind of sense? Have I suddenly lost my mind and awakened in an alternate universe? It makes me want to get in my car and drive to his house just to punch him in the teeth. It might take me 3 days to drive 400 miles, but I'd do it for the sole reason of making myself feel better.
I recall having a conversation with him on the very day England pulled out of Hong Kong and how neither of us would want to go there ever now that the Chinese were back in control, so this response makes absolute zero sense to me.
After 30 years you do shit like this to me? No explanation at all? No "I'm sorry I was the cause of your worry?" No "I wanted to scare the shit out of you on purpose?" No "We've been friends for 30 years, but I decided you weren't worth notifying about my departure from the country?" I take it back. He doesn't deserve to be punched in the teeth. This calls for a throat punch. Jesus Wept.
Two years into my employment there, I began to get sick. Really sick. I went to specialist after specialist. I was out sick more days than I was in the office and at my desk. I tried tele-commuting for several months, which ended with a lengthy stay at a hospital where I was put on a respirator. I had lost the ability to breathe on my own.
A few more months went by and I finally got the diagnosis of "Myasthenia Gravis." I was put on a massive dose of steroids and other drugs, weaned off the respirator, and sent home in a deep depression where I cocooned myself and applied for long-term disability. It had been my good fortune to opt for the maximum insurance policy when given the choice at the point of hiring. Incidentally, the long-term steroid dosing contributed to ruining my heart. Steroids for me were a wretched catch-22, since I needed them to live through the MG crises, but they were killing my heart in the process.
I could no longer sit up in an office chair for 8 or more hours a day. Some days I wasn't even strong enough to lift my head. Other days I found I could not speak...the vocal chords are muscles, of course, and MG is a neuro-muscular disease. It got to the point that I never knew which part of me wouldn't work each morning I woke.
During that time I found out just what a good friend he was. He would often pick me up and take me places where I wouldn't have been able to go by myself. He would bring me groceries. He would buy, and deliver prescriptions if I didn't have cash available. He brought me books and movies and even a new TV when mine rolled belly up, so my mind would stay active.
He took me to a number of book signings that, even though I was no longer technically working, he made sure I got paid for my time in cash. He bought me a wheelchair and personally pushed me 2 blocks uphill to get to a bookstore because that was the closest he could park since the author was a best seller, was there for a signing, so she drew a big crowd. He *NEEDED* me to be there--this author and I had history. Back then I could have recited by memory every single one of her books I had had, and he himself only knew one trilogy by this author under a different nom de plume she used when writing in a particular style.
If he had me with him, he got to go to the head of the class, right up front, directly to the table...no standing in line, no madding crowd, no toddlers alternating between eating boogers and screaming as their mothers dragged them along in strollers, or on child-sized harnesses and leashes .At some point, early into my disability, my former boss became my best friend and we have stayed friends all these years.
We had worked together as colleagues, and we have also been business partners, this man and I over the years, have started two companies together after I retired with my disability, and he quit the initial company that had brought us together. And, of course, we were for the longest time, best friends. He told me I was, in fact, his ONLY friend, not just his best friend, and the only completely trust worthy person he knew.
For almost thirty years we have talked several times a week on the phone, sometimes several times daily, and at any and all hours of the day and night. Just before last Christmas when I was having anxiety attacks, he told me, "You can call me any time, ANY TIME, day or night. I sleep with my phone right next to my head. I will always be there for you. He told me a few years back that he had often wished I was his wife and confessed that he had married the wrong person.
After 15 years, my myasthenia was finally under control with medication, and only became potentially "gravis," or deadly, if I had a concurrent active illness. I left the state due to another job, only to be brought down by a new illness.
When he found out I was going to have heart surgery he told me to make sure he was notified immediately if something happened to me, and if my health suddenly took a turn for the worse. We discussed wills and living wills. There was not one subject that was ever off limits. We could talk about anything.
The last time I talked to him he had told me his own health was getting worse. He said he had the alarming symptom of enormously swollen legs..that morning he had awakened and his legs were so swollen he couldn't even put his pants on and had to have his wife go out and buy some giant sweat pants just so he could get to the doctor later that day. I begged him to go to the Emergency Room at the local hospital, because the first thing that came to my mind when he told me of his alarming symptom, was the health of his heart. That was the day before New Year's Eve, 2015. At the end of the first week of January, I realized I hadn't heard from him. I had assumed I would hear from him later that day, or the next day at the latest, that he was probably dealing with whatever illness he had and wanted to be left alone.
Several days went by and still he had not phoned me. I tried to call him the next day, and the next, and on the third day...no answer to any of my calls. I became alarmed. I called every day that week. Each time, no answer. I sent emails to all the accounts I knew he had from all the accounts that I have myself...no answer. After that first week and the flurry of unanswered phone calls I began to think the worst. I called at least once, maybe twice a week thereafter.
When my Uncle/Brother Mikey died, on January 23rd, I thought at the time I would be in his city for the funeral. I again called him, leaving a message about the death and saying I would be in town for the funeral and I wanted to meet. No response. The following week I called a few more times until the last call I made went straight to his voice mail.
I sent another volley of emails, short and to the point, subject line: WHERE ARE YOU? The body of the emails said, "I can only assume that something bad has happened to you. The last time we spoke you were worried about your grossly swollen legs and I was actually worried about your heart. PLEASE contact me to let me know what has happened!" He had admitted to me late last year during one of our regular phone calls that he had gained over 150 pounds since we had last seen each other, so I was definitely worried about his heart.
Yesterday morning, March 13, 2016, I finally got a response from his main email account stating the following: "I just got back from Hong Kong. Stop trying to contact me." The most brief response I had ever gotten from him in the entire 30 years.
WHAT. THE. HELL? What friend sends an email like that? Does this make any kind of sense? Have I suddenly lost my mind and awakened in an alternate universe? It makes me want to get in my car and drive to his house just to punch him in the teeth. It might take me 3 days to drive 400 miles, but I'd do it for the sole reason of making myself feel better.
I recall having a conversation with him on the very day England pulled out of Hong Kong and how neither of us would want to go there ever now that the Chinese were back in control, so this response makes absolute zero sense to me.
After 30 years you do shit like this to me? No explanation at all? No "I'm sorry I was the cause of your worry?" No "I wanted to scare the shit out of you on purpose?" No "We've been friends for 30 years, but I decided you weren't worth notifying about my departure from the country?" I take it back. He doesn't deserve to be punched in the teeth. This calls for a throat punch. Jesus Wept.
Friday, January 29, 2016
BAD HAIKU OF JANUARY, 2016, DEATH STALKS US
Winter tolls death knell
No weeping at a grave site
Bansidhe screams silent
*********************************************************************************
I mourn the passing of my dearest uncle Michael. My grandparents and 3 teenagers raised me. When I came home from the hospital as a new baby, Mike was 14, Bob was 13, and Annie was 10. I was raised by my grandparents and by a tribe of teenagers. They were all very good to me, but I was especially close to Mike. His loss has left a huge, gaping wound in my damaged, grinch heart.
Oddly enough, we both had our first heart attacks at the same, young age, and had subsequent heart surgeries and grafts in the exact same places on the exact same vessels. Along with the bad heart, he and I also shared other strange medical conditions and ailments. There is a definite genetic link in our bad hearts, and doubtless the other health issues, too. I am beginning to think these are not all different diseases or conditions, but are actually symptoms of one disease.
There is something really odd and strange about his heart attack, and please bear with me while I relate it. Mike and his brother, Bob, were on a winter fishing trip at Kentucky Lake. It was cold, and they were out on the lake in a boat. Somehow, they managed to tip the boat over and both of them went into the water. Naturally, neither of them were wearing life vests. Bob was able to cling onto the side of the boat, but Mike surfaced underneath it...he told me he had tried to float and to stay calm, but I suppose the cold and the shock got to him; he slipped underwater and didn't re-surface. Fortunately, someone had witnessed this happen and was able to call 911 and get a rescue team there as soon as possible.
By the time rescue arrived he had been underwater for 20 minutes. In his case, the near freezing water actually helped him. They were able to revive him. He went directly to intensive care via helicopter. The next day, a doctor came to see him to tell him he had fluid in his lungs and needed a heart operation. His reply was, "No shit, asshole, I just drowned. Of course my lungs are gonna be full of fluid!" That's my Mike--never pulled any punches.
The doctor countered, "Nooooo...your lungs are not full of lake water, they are full because your heart is not pumping correctly. You have extensive blockages in all your major coronary vessels. Mike was able to get out one word, which was "Bullshit," and then the first heart attack struck. He was whisked away into heart surgery where they did a quadruple bypass that very day. Afterward they would not release him to go home alone to his own home--he had to be discharged where someone would be there to care for him, so he went to my mother's house to stay. At that time she was probably more sick than he was, as she was in the process of dying of COPD and emphysema. At the time I was living in Clayton and would check on them both nearly every day.
He had to stop working as an electrician, which is often quite physically demanding, and put in a claim for disability. He was also able to draw a disability check from the union, so he was not that bad off. He was still making good money, as far as disability goes. Of course it was nowhere near what he made as an electrician, but now he had no travel or other work-related expenses. He had worked like a dog his whole life and had amassed quite a tidy sum in annuities for his retirement, which had yet to be touched at the time of his death. His wife, whom he had not seen in 40 years will reap that benefit. She is a greedy bitch. (I never pull any punches either.) She never HAD to work a day in her life, but unbeknownst to him had had a full time job for the last 20 years and had been hiding that knowledge from him. He continued to send her half of his check the entire time he was alive. I believe the IRS will be informed, and I will stand by and wait as the axe falls across the correct neck.
Now here's what really gets me. There will be no funeral. He wanted to cremated and have his ashes poured into Kentucky Lake, where he "died" the first time. He believed, as I do, that you die when you're supposed to die. If you're brought back, you are essentially in a living hell on Earth for the remaining time spent alive. My uncle Martin felt the same way. We all arrived at this conclusion at different times, but realized we were on the same page when I happened to mention one day that my life has been nothing but turmoil and a roiling morass of pain and anguish of one sort or another since the day I was brought back from death. As was Michael's life, As was Martin's life. So, by Mike's thinking, he is going back to his watery grave, where he should have stayed when he was *dead* the first time.
Another twist to the knife in my ribs: There will be no memorial service for him for our remaining family which consists of me (technically his niece, but I have the pride of place as sister because we grew up together in the same household, in the same generation), his brother Bob, and a skillion first cousins and then the children of the cousins. There are hundreds upon hundreds of union people who knew him and respected him, and many who just respect the family name. We are considered "big wigs" as far as the union is considered.
In summation, I think it is total horseshit that no one cares enough to organize some kind of a memorial service. We NEED a memorial because it helps the grieving process. I can't do it because I am extremely ill. I could make it there, more than likely, but would need at least a day to recover from the drive there, then again for the drive back.
The year 2015 was not a good one for me, health-wise. I'm dying and I know it. Every day I get just a little bit weaker, a little more dependent. I am quite literally wasting away. I have lost enough weight to make up another entire person. My muscles are totally gone -- I have little to no musculature at all on my body. I am merely a skeleton covered by a lot of loose skin. I have reached "dying weight." So, I'm too damned sick to drive up to St. Louis and throw together a memorial, and it's something I just can't do over the phone. Even if it is just a get together, or a potluck meal at someone's house (and there are plenty of big houses among the cousins), it would be better than nothing.
I am disappointed in the rest of my asshole family. Ashamed, even. I see their true colors. I see how they are. How dare they care so little for something so important? Do they have so little regard for their elders, so little pride in their own family? These same people would not have hesitated to call on me, Mike & Bob if they needed something, or if we had something they wanted, or think nothing of just taking that something without even asking. That shit ends today. New will in progress.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
BLESSED ARE THE POOR IN SPIRIT
On January 8, 1976, I was struck by a car and killed. I was revived once, on the street where I laid. I died again in the ambulance but they brought me back a second time. I died again from blood loss after reaching the hospital, and died a fourth time due to seizing and brain swelling--I had massive head trauma. They brought me back, to be placed on life support. I was comatose.
They did not expect me to live at all. In fact, my left leg, nearly completely severed and held together by one tendon, an artery and some veins and the skin over the knee, was mended with only 7 stitches. That confirms to me they thought they were sewing up a cadaver. Who mends a severed limb with only seven stitches? It was reported to me I did nothing but scream continually for nearly four days before they gave me enough Valium to stop the screaming. It was disturbing the other patients.
Last Rites were administered to me by Father Norman Christian, a priest I had known from my parish Church and school since moving there in 1974. I laid in a coma for 28 days, and then suddenly for no apparent reason, I woke up. Father Norman Christian was sitting next to my bed.
I won't go into what it's like to come out of a coma. It can't be explained, and it certainly could not be understood by anyone other than another person who had come out of a coma. We survivors are few and far between.
I remember being asked where does it hurt? What hurts the most? My answer was in German, "Sehr schlecht, jeder Ort. Schmerz. Qual." I remember these words because it was all I could say over and over and over. Later some nonsensical German leaked in, like parts of poems, or things I had read-- but always "Qual," which means "agony." I could understand the English speech, but could not answer in it. I remember being very frustrated and crying or laughing at the frustration. They brought in a German priest to translate: "She says "everywhere...it hurts everywhere. She is in agony." Well, DOH...did they need a translator to tell them that? Seriously?
After I "woke up" they then decided after a few more days I would probably survive operations, so they began to fix the parts of me that had been left broken the entire time I was in SICU, providing more "Qual." I spent nearly two years out of school, in and out of the hospital being "fixed." A large part of that time was spent in a body cast. The whole time they were worried about my head and brain, but my back will never be right, and the leg proved to be the worst of all. Bone grafts, skin grafts, plates, screws, pins, etc, all to provide me with what is essentially a living "peg leg." It supports my weight and serves as a prop, but can do nothing else. I have walked with some sort of device since that time (walkers, crutches, canes of various types).
Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a body cast for a continual 9 months? Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a hospital for any length of time at all? At first there are lots and lots of visitors Hundreds of people came to see me. I'm not kidding. My entire 8th grade class came to see me--that's about 60 kids. Everyone from high school came at least once, out of a class of 400 plus. All my teachers, past and the then-present came. My High School German teacher came to see me several times. She gave me "A" grades for the entire time I was out of school, and for the entire 4 years, I should add. (This is something entirely without explanation. I had had exactly 4 months of German at school, and awakened from a coma speaking near fluent German? One for the X-Files, gang.) Cards and letters poured in. Then the visitors dwindle, the cards stop coming, and back then, hospital rooms didn't even have TVs. They had a TV "rental" program that I didn't get, since we couldn't afford it. Can you imagine the boredom? Eventually my visiting classmates stopped coming altogether. My only regular visitor was good ol' Father Norman Christian. Every Thursday afternoon. Like clockwork.
Apparently new parts of my brain began to function for the places that had been lost to trauma. For instance, I could brush my teeth without sticking the toothbrush into my ear. Every physical thing I once knew how to do I had to relearn. And the English came back. Fr. Christian, for the entire two years was there to visit me every Thursday afternoon without fail. Sometimes he would bring little somethings with him...a milkshake, or a little puzzle, or we would play chess. Once he brought a T-Rex head on a stick...a trigger mechanism operated the jaw to make it "bite." We both laughed uproariously over it, a silly thing. He had hidden it out of sight and its head ever so slowly appeared over the side of my bed...looming over my face and eventually giving me a tiny "bite" on the tip of my nose. It actually proved to be a wonderful gift because it lengthened my reach and I could pick up small things with it, such as a pen that was out of reach, or scoot a book closer.
Then one Thursday afternoon Father Christian came to see me. He had with him a guitar and that beat up old guitar changed my life completely. I had played guitar at masses for my class and he had remembered! Suddenly I had an activity to do...something to strive for and accomplish. I would play until my fingers couldn't stand it. I would rest awhile, then play some more. When he came to see me after that, we would sing together while I played. I became quite an accomplished player with absolutely nothing to do all day but futz around with that guitar. At 16 I began to get gigs. By the time I graduated from high school (I had kept pace with my class) I was a solo act in the blues bars of downtown St. Louis. He came to see me play one night when I was at Cafe Louis. I owe everything I did musically to my friend, Father Norman Christian.
He was moved to another parish and we lost touch. I would think of him from time to time, meaning to call him, but I never did. The other night, I had the bright idea to try to find him online, hoping he was still alive. To my utter horror and disbelief, I found his name among the pedophile priests of St. Louis. I found the name of his sister and called her last Sunday, seeking...I don't know what...seeking conformation, I guess. She told me it was all true, that "Norman" had admitted everything before he died in 2004, and had even abused her own daughter by telling her about the things he did to and with other kids. He had abused both vulnerable boys and girls and had no preference. The man she described to me was not the man I knew. Could NOT have been the man I knew.
My brain has been nothing but a shit storm since the moment I heard those words come out of her mouth. I have been going through every memory I have of Father Norman Christian and every memory is a good one. He did not abuse me, he was nothing but good to me. He was happy and kind and wonderful to me. He encouraged me at every turn. He was the only person who didn't abandon me in the hospital, even after my own mother stopped coming to see me regularly. And truly, is there anyone MORE vulnerable than a 14 year old girl in a goddamned body cast?
It was like his sister and I were talking about two different people. Total polar opposites. I still cannot fully wrap my head around it. I am wondering if maybe he had some kind of illness like a brain tumor or something that left a pedophile monster in its wake? I am not ashamed to say that I loved Father Norman Christian, and I'm pretty damned sure he loved me. He loved me, not in the warped sense that a pedophile loves one of his victims, but not unlike the love a father has for a daughter. I can't even be sure of this either, since I never met my father....see...I am made even more vulnerable by that fact. I have vulnerable written all over me, and yet, I was absolutely NOT ABUSED.
To be poor in spirit is to recognize your utter spiritual bankruptcy before God. It is understanding that you have absolutely nothing of worth to offer God. Being poor in spirit is admitting that, because of your sin, you are completely destitute spiritually and can do nothing to deliver yourself from your dire situation. Jesus is saying that, no matter your status in life, you must recognize your spiritual poverty before you can come to God in faith to receive the salvation He offers. If there is a more dire situation than that of Father Norman Christian, I don't know what it is. So blessed is Norman Christian, his is the kingdom of Heaven.
They did not expect me to live at all. In fact, my left leg, nearly completely severed and held together by one tendon, an artery and some veins and the skin over the knee, was mended with only 7 stitches. That confirms to me they thought they were sewing up a cadaver. Who mends a severed limb with only seven stitches? It was reported to me I did nothing but scream continually for nearly four days before they gave me enough Valium to stop the screaming. It was disturbing the other patients.
Last Rites were administered to me by Father Norman Christian, a priest I had known from my parish Church and school since moving there in 1974. I laid in a coma for 28 days, and then suddenly for no apparent reason, I woke up. Father Norman Christian was sitting next to my bed.
I won't go into what it's like to come out of a coma. It can't be explained, and it certainly could not be understood by anyone other than another person who had come out of a coma. We survivors are few and far between.
I remember being asked where does it hurt? What hurts the most? My answer was in German, "Sehr schlecht, jeder Ort. Schmerz. Qual." I remember these words because it was all I could say over and over and over. Later some nonsensical German leaked in, like parts of poems, or things I had read-- but always "Qual," which means "agony." I could understand the English speech, but could not answer in it. I remember being very frustrated and crying or laughing at the frustration. They brought in a German priest to translate: "She says "everywhere...it hurts everywhere. She is in agony." Well, DOH...did they need a translator to tell them that? Seriously?
After I "woke up" they then decided after a few more days I would probably survive operations, so they began to fix the parts of me that had been left broken the entire time I was in SICU, providing more "Qual." I spent nearly two years out of school, in and out of the hospital being "fixed." A large part of that time was spent in a body cast. The whole time they were worried about my head and brain, but my back will never be right, and the leg proved to be the worst of all. Bone grafts, skin grafts, plates, screws, pins, etc, all to provide me with what is essentially a living "peg leg." It supports my weight and serves as a prop, but can do nothing else. I have walked with some sort of device since that time (walkers, crutches, canes of various types).
Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a body cast for a continual 9 months? Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a hospital for any length of time at all? At first there are lots and lots of visitors Hundreds of people came to see me. I'm not kidding. My entire 8th grade class came to see me--that's about 60 kids. Everyone from high school came at least once, out of a class of 400 plus. All my teachers, past and the then-present came. My High School German teacher came to see me several times. She gave me "A" grades for the entire time I was out of school, and for the entire 4 years, I should add. (This is something entirely without explanation. I had had exactly 4 months of German at school, and awakened from a coma speaking near fluent German? One for the X-Files, gang.) Cards and letters poured in. Then the visitors dwindle, the cards stop coming, and back then, hospital rooms didn't even have TVs. They had a TV "rental" program that I didn't get, since we couldn't afford it. Can you imagine the boredom? Eventually my visiting classmates stopped coming altogether. My only regular visitor was good ol' Father Norman Christian. Every Thursday afternoon. Like clockwork.
Apparently new parts of my brain began to function for the places that had been lost to trauma. For instance, I could brush my teeth without sticking the toothbrush into my ear. Every physical thing I once knew how to do I had to relearn. And the English came back. Fr. Christian, for the entire two years was there to visit me every Thursday afternoon without fail. Sometimes he would bring little somethings with him...a milkshake, or a little puzzle, or we would play chess. Once he brought a T-Rex head on a stick...a trigger mechanism operated the jaw to make it "bite." We both laughed uproariously over it, a silly thing. He had hidden it out of sight and its head ever so slowly appeared over the side of my bed...looming over my face and eventually giving me a tiny "bite" on the tip of my nose. It actually proved to be a wonderful gift because it lengthened my reach and I could pick up small things with it, such as a pen that was out of reach, or scoot a book closer.
Then one Thursday afternoon Father Christian came to see me. He had with him a guitar and that beat up old guitar changed my life completely. I had played guitar at masses for my class and he had remembered! Suddenly I had an activity to do...something to strive for and accomplish. I would play until my fingers couldn't stand it. I would rest awhile, then play some more. When he came to see me after that, we would sing together while I played. I became quite an accomplished player with absolutely nothing to do all day but futz around with that guitar. At 16 I began to get gigs. By the time I graduated from high school (I had kept pace with my class) I was a solo act in the blues bars of downtown St. Louis. He came to see me play one night when I was at Cafe Louis. I owe everything I did musically to my friend, Father Norman Christian.
He was moved to another parish and we lost touch. I would think of him from time to time, meaning to call him, but I never did. The other night, I had the bright idea to try to find him online, hoping he was still alive. To my utter horror and disbelief, I found his name among the pedophile priests of St. Louis. I found the name of his sister and called her last Sunday, seeking...I don't know what...seeking conformation, I guess. She told me it was all true, that "Norman" had admitted everything before he died in 2004, and had even abused her own daughter by telling her about the things he did to and with other kids. He had abused both vulnerable boys and girls and had no preference. The man she described to me was not the man I knew. Could NOT have been the man I knew.
My brain has been nothing but a shit storm since the moment I heard those words come out of her mouth. I have been going through every memory I have of Father Norman Christian and every memory is a good one. He did not abuse me, he was nothing but good to me. He was happy and kind and wonderful to me. He encouraged me at every turn. He was the only person who didn't abandon me in the hospital, even after my own mother stopped coming to see me regularly. And truly, is there anyone MORE vulnerable than a 14 year old girl in a goddamned body cast?
It was like his sister and I were talking about two different people. Total polar opposites. I still cannot fully wrap my head around it. I am wondering if maybe he had some kind of illness like a brain tumor or something that left a pedophile monster in its wake? I am not ashamed to say that I loved Father Norman Christian, and I'm pretty damned sure he loved me. He loved me, not in the warped sense that a pedophile loves one of his victims, but not unlike the love a father has for a daughter. I can't even be sure of this either, since I never met my father....see...I am made even more vulnerable by that fact. I have vulnerable written all over me, and yet, I was absolutely NOT ABUSED.
To be poor in spirit is to recognize your utter spiritual bankruptcy before God. It is understanding that you have absolutely nothing of worth to offer God. Being poor in spirit is admitting that, because of your sin, you are completely destitute spiritually and can do nothing to deliver yourself from your dire situation. Jesus is saying that, no matter your status in life, you must recognize your spiritual poverty before you can come to God in faith to receive the salvation He offers. If there is a more dire situation than that of Father Norman Christian, I don't know what it is. So blessed is Norman Christian, his is the kingdom of Heaven.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
DEATH IS NOTHING AT ALL
Anyone who knows me well, knows I generally have no love for poetry. This is one poem I do happen to love. It is comforting, in its strange way. I agree with everything it says, and I do find it to be a comfort. I recommend that it be used liberally, or at will. I've been reading it a lot lately.
DEATH IS NOTHING AT ALL
by Henry Scott Holland
Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away to the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
Monday, November 17, 2014
GOOD GRIEF!
It occurred to me today that I am grieving. I read a quote that someone had posted and here it is: "The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not 'get over' the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but, you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to." -- Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler
I realized today that I was in a state of grief, and have been for some time. I was in shock when they first told me me I would need immediate heart surgery or a grave digger. Well, not in those words exactly, but you get the point. Upon being awakened after surgery and once I had my wits about me, I realized I was in horrific pain. I was told by the end of six weeks I would feel like a new person, that my pain would largely be gone, that I'd be able to breathe again without gasping for every breath. I looked forward to the surgery and was terrified at the same time.
I started grieving the day I realized that six months had passed and the horrific pain had never gotten better and would NEVER get better. I am grieving the loss of life as I knew it, which hadn't been particularly good for a long, long time. I've been ill forever it seems. But there were some things I could still do. Although physically disabled, I generally enjoyed life. I could get around, I could walk with my dogs, I could go places, do things--see actual people and interact with them. I could do things and occupy my time. I could clean my own goddamned house. I could cook myself a meal. I could get dressed all by myself. I could take a bath all by myself. I could walk out into the back yard and not have to take a phone with me in case I fell. I could make it to the bathroom before I peed in my pants. I grieve for my own lost life. Dammit, I had plans. Places to go, people to see, things to do. Gone. It's all gone. I am not grieving over the death of someone close, but it is grief nonetheless.
You know that stupid card the nurses hand you? The Pain Card? It shows a completely neutral face for zero pain. The faces get progressively worse indicating more pain, until you get to number 10, the worst pain. The scale only goes to 10. You are not supposed to be any more painful than level 10. I have never been on that 1-10 scale. I rate my physical pain at 12. In fact, this is the best pain chart example I could come up with:
Now, on top of the physical pain I have, I also have the pain of grief, which is a much different type of pain. The pain of my particular grief is more like a giant, open, raw, weeping, festering sore. It is not only excruciatingly painful, but it is ugly to look at. Slowly, over a period of many, many months, it began to get minutely better at the sides of the open wound. Microns of new flesh began to form at the edges, slowly, ever so slowly beginning to close. It continues that way unless someone happens to rake it open with a careless mistake, or a heartless comment. Maybe, just maybe, years from now, if I last that long, my wound will form a scab over the top. The wound will still be there, still excruciating, but not weeping, not festering. Maybe, just maybe in a few more years I'll grow some scar tissue over the wound.
Scar tissue has a pain all its own. It hurts like hell if someone presses on it, or it gets bumped on a sharp table edge, but it won't bleed. The wound of grief never completely heals, no matter how much time passes. I may grow scar tissue, that's the absolute best that could happen. I am left with a giant, unsightly scar that will never, ever go away. It's a reminder that something, once beautiful, is now gone forever, reduced to scar tissue and gallons upon gallons of shed tears.
I have not 'learned to live with it," I am forced to live with it. I have not "rebuilt around it" because I will never be whole again, there is nothing left upon which to build. There is just a smidgen of truth to the above quote--just enough to catch your eye. The truth is I WILL grieve forever and I will NEVER be the same. The rest is bullshit, plain and simple. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler, I am here to tell you, you are both WRONG! How dare you feed false hope to those who grieve? Everyone grieves in their own way, that is the only certainty. You won't know until it happens to you. You can both take your precious quote and stuff it in your asses. Sideways.
I realized today that I was in a state of grief, and have been for some time. I was in shock when they first told me me I would need immediate heart surgery or a grave digger. Well, not in those words exactly, but you get the point. Upon being awakened after surgery and once I had my wits about me, I realized I was in horrific pain. I was told by the end of six weeks I would feel like a new person, that my pain would largely be gone, that I'd be able to breathe again without gasping for every breath. I looked forward to the surgery and was terrified at the same time.
I started grieving the day I realized that six months had passed and the horrific pain had never gotten better and would NEVER get better. I am grieving the loss of life as I knew it, which hadn't been particularly good for a long, long time. I've been ill forever it seems. But there were some things I could still do. Although physically disabled, I generally enjoyed life. I could get around, I could walk with my dogs, I could go places, do things--see actual people and interact with them. I could do things and occupy my time. I could clean my own goddamned house. I could cook myself a meal. I could get dressed all by myself. I could take a bath all by myself. I could walk out into the back yard and not have to take a phone with me in case I fell. I could make it to the bathroom before I peed in my pants. I grieve for my own lost life. Dammit, I had plans. Places to go, people to see, things to do. Gone. It's all gone. I am not grieving over the death of someone close, but it is grief nonetheless.
You know that stupid card the nurses hand you? The Pain Card? It shows a completely neutral face for zero pain. The faces get progressively worse indicating more pain, until you get to number 10, the worst pain. The scale only goes to 10. You are not supposed to be any more painful than level 10. I have never been on that 1-10 scale. I rate my physical pain at 12. In fact, this is the best pain chart example I could come up with:
Now, on top of the physical pain I have, I also have the pain of grief, which is a much different type of pain. The pain of my particular grief is more like a giant, open, raw, weeping, festering sore. It is not only excruciatingly painful, but it is ugly to look at. Slowly, over a period of many, many months, it began to get minutely better at the sides of the open wound. Microns of new flesh began to form at the edges, slowly, ever so slowly beginning to close. It continues that way unless someone happens to rake it open with a careless mistake, or a heartless comment. Maybe, just maybe, years from now, if I last that long, my wound will form a scab over the top. The wound will still be there, still excruciating, but not weeping, not festering. Maybe, just maybe in a few more years I'll grow some scar tissue over the wound.
Scar tissue has a pain all its own. It hurts like hell if someone presses on it, or it gets bumped on a sharp table edge, but it won't bleed. The wound of grief never completely heals, no matter how much time passes. I may grow scar tissue, that's the absolute best that could happen. I am left with a giant, unsightly scar that will never, ever go away. It's a reminder that something, once beautiful, is now gone forever, reduced to scar tissue and gallons upon gallons of shed tears.
I have not 'learned to live with it," I am forced to live with it. I have not "rebuilt around it" because I will never be whole again, there is nothing left upon which to build. There is just a smidgen of truth to the above quote--just enough to catch your eye. The truth is I WILL grieve forever and I will NEVER be the same. The rest is bullshit, plain and simple. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler, I am here to tell you, you are both WRONG! How dare you feed false hope to those who grieve? Everyone grieves in their own way, that is the only certainty. You won't know until it happens to you. You can both take your precious quote and stuff it in your asses. Sideways.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
THE PRICE OF THE LIFE OF A FRIEND
My family has always been in the horse business, even before they came to America. In fact, that's how they were able to have enough money to come here in the first place, and all at the same time. Three generations came at once, and all because of their horses.
Catherine's husband had died, leaving her with seven children, six boys and one girl and the livery stable they had owned together. She hung on as long as she could, squirreling away every penny, then sold the horses and the business, I was told, at a very good price for the day. It was enough to buy a first class ticket for everyone: the five boys, her mother, her younger sister, and still have enough to live a nice life until they got themselves established here. Three strong, intelligent women with good business sense, and five young boys came alone, with no other family to help them, and no one waiting for them here.To the new world they came, from Ireland, somewhere around the late 1890s, just before the turn of the century. Georgie Boy, the littlest, had been born exactly one month after his father had died. Little Georgie was also the seventh son of a seventh son.
Of course they started the business they knew, Horses. They bought/built/occupied a stable in what is now part of downtown St. Louis. In fact, that very building was still standing the last time I visited there. They specialized in livery. They had coaches and carriages and teams for hire, and also wagons with matched teams of draft horses. They had riding horses for hire, too. They regularly bought and sold horses, and trained their own teams. The boys were known for "gentling" horses instead of breaking them. They could take a green horse and make him into a bombproof gentleman's horse in two week's time. This was still during the day that horses ruled and before engines overtook the streets of the world.
I'm not sure how they came by "Yella," a giant, draft colt, since they almost strictly had matched teams of draft horses, not singletons. A single riding horse or carriage horse yes, but never a single draft horse. Perhaps they bought a mare and he was the foal at her side. At any rate, Yella was a singleton, and could never be matched. He was an odd color, and huge, even by draft horse standards. He loved little Georgie boy, and would follow him around like a puppy. Georgie slept in the stable in Yella's stall on warm nights every chance he got, which was as often as he could sneak out of the house without anyone noticing. The two were always together, until Yella got old enough and big enough to be hired out on jobs.
Georgie, while still a boy, became Yella's driver. A team was two matched horses and their driver. But together, Georgie and Yella made a team, because Yella by himself was as strong as two horses together.Yella would do anything Georgie asked of him. Georgie and Yella became known all over town for pulling loads no other two-horse teams would take, or for navigating difficult terrain, and for generally doing jobs other double teams had refused. Georgie Boy and Yella were always sent out on the most difficult jobs and were famous for getting the job done.
By the time Georgie was a young man he and Yella were a legend around town. One day there was drink involved. In those days, anyone who could reach the bar and had the coin, was served whatever they ordered. It didn't take much to get a kid drunk--Georgie was a young teenager and had a small, wiry build, so in his case it didn't take much at all. On that particular day, Georgie boy had already drunk his fill. He boasted, "I have one hundred dollars that says my horse, Yella, can out-pull any team in the city." Days went by and Georgie finally had a taker. The object to be pulled was a loaded barge, sitting some ways out in the Mississippi River. The double team went first, pulling the barge closer, but gave out way before it was even near to the levy. The barge was still in the channel! The heavily loaded barge was and hauled back to the starting point by two 4-mule teams on the Illinois side of the river bank. The double team of horses that had given out were unhooked from the traces and Yella stepped in, to be chained to the barge.
Georgie stood in front of Yella, put his hand on his nose and quietly said, "Come on, Yella....Come on, Yella." And Yella came. He pulled like he had never pulled before and didn't stop. "Come on, Yella." Georgie stood in front of him coaxing him farther, standing in front of him and walking backwards constantly saying, "Come on, Yella." Yella came...All by himself, he landed the barge and pulled it half way up the cobblestones of the levy. Yella then gave out a big sigh and fell over dead. His huge heart had burst from the tremendous effort. Georgie's heart broke at the same time. He cradled Yella's giant head in his lap, begging him to get up, tears streaming down his face.
The double team's driver came over and threw down $100 in bills saying, "That's some horse ya got there, kid." Georgie won the hundred dollars, but he realized too late it was not worth the price of poor Yella's life, and that the cost of his drunken boasting was paid with life of his dear friend. As long as he lived, Georgie never had another drink. Some lessons are harder to learn than others.
Georgie boy was my grandfather. As an old man he still carried the map of Ireland on his face, and still spoke with a brogue, even though he'd spent the majority of his life in America. He taught me a lot about horses, and started me riding at age 3. He told me this story when I was a little girl. I remember the tears just pouring down his face as he told it, his voice shaking as the great shame he carried fell from his lips. My grandfather grieved the loss of Yella's life until his dying day. Yella is the reason I don't drink.
Of course they started the business they knew, Horses. They bought/built/occupied a stable in what is now part of downtown St. Louis. In fact, that very building was still standing the last time I visited there. They specialized in livery. They had coaches and carriages and teams for hire, and also wagons with matched teams of draft horses. They had riding horses for hire, too. They regularly bought and sold horses, and trained their own teams. The boys were known for "gentling" horses instead of breaking them. They could take a green horse and make him into a bombproof gentleman's horse in two week's time. This was still during the day that horses ruled and before engines overtook the streets of the world.
I'm not sure how they came by "Yella," a giant, draft colt, since they almost strictly had matched teams of draft horses, not singletons. A single riding horse or carriage horse yes, but never a single draft horse. Perhaps they bought a mare and he was the foal at her side. At any rate, Yella was a singleton, and could never be matched. He was an odd color, and huge, even by draft horse standards. He loved little Georgie boy, and would follow him around like a puppy. Georgie slept in the stable in Yella's stall on warm nights every chance he got, which was as often as he could sneak out of the house without anyone noticing. The two were always together, until Yella got old enough and big enough to be hired out on jobs.
Georgie, while still a boy, became Yella's driver. A team was two matched horses and their driver. But together, Georgie and Yella made a team, because Yella by himself was as strong as two horses together.Yella would do anything Georgie asked of him. Georgie and Yella became known all over town for pulling loads no other two-horse teams would take, or for navigating difficult terrain, and for generally doing jobs other double teams had refused. Georgie Boy and Yella were always sent out on the most difficult jobs and were famous for getting the job done.
By the time Georgie was a young man he and Yella were a legend around town. One day there was drink involved. In those days, anyone who could reach the bar and had the coin, was served whatever they ordered. It didn't take much to get a kid drunk--Georgie was a young teenager and had a small, wiry build, so in his case it didn't take much at all. On that particular day, Georgie boy had already drunk his fill. He boasted, "I have one hundred dollars that says my horse, Yella, can out-pull any team in the city." Days went by and Georgie finally had a taker. The object to be pulled was a loaded barge, sitting some ways out in the Mississippi River. The double team went first, pulling the barge closer, but gave out way before it was even near to the levy. The barge was still in the channel! The heavily loaded barge was and hauled back to the starting point by two 4-mule teams on the Illinois side of the river bank. The double team of horses that had given out were unhooked from the traces and Yella stepped in, to be chained to the barge.
Georgie stood in front of Yella, put his hand on his nose and quietly said, "Come on, Yella....Come on, Yella." And Yella came. He pulled like he had never pulled before and didn't stop. "Come on, Yella." Georgie stood in front of him coaxing him farther, standing in front of him and walking backwards constantly saying, "Come on, Yella." Yella came...All by himself, he landed the barge and pulled it half way up the cobblestones of the levy. Yella then gave out a big sigh and fell over dead. His huge heart had burst from the tremendous effort. Georgie's heart broke at the same time. He cradled Yella's giant head in his lap, begging him to get up, tears streaming down his face.
The double team's driver came over and threw down $100 in bills saying, "That's some horse ya got there, kid." Georgie won the hundred dollars, but he realized too late it was not worth the price of poor Yella's life, and that the cost of his drunken boasting was paid with life of his dear friend. As long as he lived, Georgie never had another drink. Some lessons are harder to learn than others.
Georgie boy was my grandfather. As an old man he still carried the map of Ireland on his face, and still spoke with a brogue, even though he'd spent the majority of his life in America. He taught me a lot about horses, and started me riding at age 3. He told me this story when I was a little girl. I remember the tears just pouring down his face as he told it, his voice shaking as the great shame he carried fell from his lips. My grandfather grieved the loss of Yella's life until his dying day. Yella is the reason I don't drink.
Friday, October 31, 2014
DOOMED TO RABIES?
Pie Darkstone
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
October 30, 2014
Dr. xxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
RE: October 15 Appointment Presenting
with Bat Attack/Rabies Exposure
Dear Dr. Xxxx,
I visited your office the day following
a bat attack. You briefly looked through my hair on the side of my
head and found one small scratch.You told me at that time my exposure
to rabies presented an insignificant risk. You told me it had been 30
years or more since you'd had to deal with rabies and knew that your
office didn't keep the vaccine on hand. I was told to go home and
wait to be contacted by your nurse by that Friday.
I was indeed contacted by your nurse on
Friday, October 17, at 11:49AM—eleven minutes before your office
closed for the day and for the weekend. She gave me the name, XXXX XXXX, and the phone number to the health department. I later found
out that XXXX XXXX is “The Rabies Man” at the county health
department office. I had to call him myself in order to reach him, he
then immediately returned my call.
I told Mr. XXXX I had been attacked by
a bat on October 14 at 2:30AM. His response was, “OH DEAR LORD!
Drop what you are doing right this minute and go to XXXXXXX's
Emergency Room—they are the only location here with the vaccine.
Don't waste any time, go there NOW! There is a very short window of
time to get treatment, GO NOW! I will call you later this evening to
follow up. GO NOW!” I am not exaggerating his response in the
least. He was very brief, very terse, and where I have used capital
letters, was practically shouting into the phone.
I went immediately to XXXXXXX's ER.
Initially I was told that I was already out of time, that I was no
longer in the protocol window for optimal treatment. Treatment should
begin within 72 hours. I demanded the shots, saying,”You're going
to doom me to rabies because I'm a few hours late? You're kidding me,
right? Give me the shots. Now.” I got the shots. I hope they work,
that's all I CAN do, since you should have sent me for treatment
IMMEDIATELY, the very day I came to see you.
Before treatment began I was given a
pain pill and an anti-nausea drug. The ER nurses then went through
the entire side of my head with a fine toothed comb and a magnifying
glass. They found multiple bites and scratches, at least one of the
wounds being “very deep.” Each bite or scratch had to be injected
with immunoglobulin, using up 3 syringes in the process, and was
extremely painful. The remaining 9 syringes of immunoglobulin was
injected into my thigh. I then got one vial of vaccine and a tetanus
shot for good measure. I returned on October 20, and October 24 for
more vaccine. My last treatment will be on November 7.
I have since learned from Mr. XXXX and
the CDC that any contact with a bat, especially if bites or scratches
are involved, is considered a category III contact. The fact that the
bat attacked me while I was sitting still further indicates that
something was wrong with it, that it was likely ill, and very likely
rabid. Bites on the head or hands, because of the relative density of
nerve endings, are considered higher-risk exposures.
Bats are a major vector of rabies in
the state of Arkansas. ANY contact with a bat should result in
immediate treatment. Even if a bat is found inside a house, the
occupants of the house should all seek treatment. My attack was not a
thing to be taken lightly or considered “insignificant.”
Dr. XXXX, I am sending you this letter
for a number of reasons, the first being that this never happens to
another patient of yours. Hopefully you will spread this information
to other doctors in your clinic to make sure it does not happen to
any of their patients either.
Secondly, I realize that XXXXXXX's Hospital is your competitor. However, they are the only repository of
rabies vaccine in this area. Unless XXXXXXXXXX Hospital intends to
keep the vaccine on hand, you should not hesitate to send your
potential rabies victims to XXXXXXXXXX's Hospital for treatment, and
do not waste any time in doing so.
Thirdly, it should not have been left
up to me to contact the health department to find out about
treatment. This rabies information should have been gotten
immediately by your staff while I was in your office. Instead, my
case was treated lackadaisically.
Lastly, I was attacked and bitten by
the animal on October 14 at 2:30AM. My treatment began approximately
84 hours after the attack and 12 hours out of the protocol window. I
think you're a good doctor otherwise, but you really fumbled the ball
here. Not just you, but your entire staff is involved. Surely I
needn't remind you of the fatality rate of rabies? Bat attacks should
never be taken lightly, and certainly not shoved to the side until
it's convenient for a nurse to phone the health department. For God's
sake and the sake of any future bat attack patients, get them
treatment IMMEDIATELY.
I intend to remain your patient. As I
said, I think you're a good doctor for regular problems and I
actually really like you. I really have no complaints other than this
one big giant huge complaint. That's why I am sending you this letter
instead of sending it to an attorney. Please understand I am trying
to be as tactful as I can while still urgently making my point.
Sincerely,
Friday, October 11, 2013
ROLLIN' UP A BIG FATTIE or SUSHI CHEFS NOT LONG FOR THIS WORLD
Yesterday was my birthday. Birthday requires someone else cooking for me. I tried to go out for sushi last night. I wound up getting no dragon on my dragon roll. My waitress refused to make eye contact with me...as in not even walk by my table, so I hobbled up to the sushi chef counter, plate in hand:
"Hey buddy, you wanna slap some dragon on here? This is not what I ordered."
"Is too dragon roll, IS TOO, see green on top and happy face and dragon shape?"
"There is supposed to be DRAGON (smoked eel) in a dragon roll ...PUT SOME ON IT." (I caught myself speaking louder, as English was not his first language, nor was it Japanese. I realized my subtle nuance in English was lost on the poor F-er, but I cannot seem to stop it from coming out of my mouth. I was hoping my accompanying facial expressions would carry the day.)
"No... see (he points with a stick) dragon INSIDE roll, see little line of black under cucumber?
"That, my friend, is a sheet of seaweed paper, (I dig the little blackish rectangle out of the roll with my own set of sticks.) trust me, I know seaweed from eel. Would you like me to come back there and roll my own? I can roll up a big fattie like nobody's bidness! Where is the manager?"
He stamped his little foot and stalked off. Then things got worse. There was much hissing, spitting and scratching, but in the end, the uneaten rice, avocado, cucumber,and seaweed paper roll went unpaid for, good thing too, since it was an exorbitant price for what was essentially a VEGAN sushi roll. How dare they try to pass that crap off on me? It was a mistake upon which I called the tiny douchbag, and dared to insult his sushi chefiness, which he had so richly earned. I insulted him again by refusing to tip him..The manager tried to "make it better" by constantly rubbing my arm. Tsk, how slimy! No, you silly twat, you make it better by chastising that sushi asshole, you make it better by explaining his own menu to him and what each item means. You make it better by not making me pay for this plate of shit you just served me and that I didn't eat! UGH. And a good time was had by all. Sheesh. Thumbs down for Fuji.
If I see them on the street, I shall insult them a second time!
If I have another birthday, I will order a whole cake just for me, and eat it by myself at home. I have the worst luck ever when it comes to restaurants.
"Hey buddy, you wanna slap some dragon on here? This is not what I ordered."
"Is too dragon roll, IS TOO, see green on top and happy face and dragon shape?"
"There is supposed to be DRAGON (smoked eel) in a dragon roll ...PUT SOME ON IT." (I caught myself speaking louder, as English was not his first language, nor was it Japanese. I realized my subtle nuance in English was lost on the poor F-er, but I cannot seem to stop it from coming out of my mouth. I was hoping my accompanying facial expressions would carry the day.)
"No... see (he points with a stick) dragon INSIDE roll, see little line of black under cucumber?
"That, my friend, is a sheet of seaweed paper, (I dig the little blackish rectangle out of the roll with my own set of sticks.) trust me, I know seaweed from eel. Would you like me to come back there and roll my own? I can roll up a big fattie like nobody's bidness! Where is the manager?"
He stamped his little foot and stalked off. Then things got worse. There was much hissing, spitting and scratching, but in the end, the uneaten rice, avocado, cucumber,and seaweed paper roll went unpaid for, good thing too, since it was an exorbitant price for what was essentially a VEGAN sushi roll. How dare they try to pass that crap off on me? It was a mistake upon which I called the tiny douchbag, and dared to insult his sushi chefiness, which he had so richly earned. I insulted him again by refusing to tip him..The manager tried to "make it better" by constantly rubbing my arm. Tsk, how slimy! No, you silly twat, you make it better by chastising that sushi asshole, you make it better by explaining his own menu to him and what each item means. You make it better by not making me pay for this plate of shit you just served me and that I didn't eat! UGH. And a good time was had by all. Sheesh. Thumbs down for Fuji.
If I see them on the street, I shall insult them a second time!
If I have another birthday, I will order a whole cake just for me, and eat it by myself at home. I have the worst luck ever when it comes to restaurants.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
OWW MY SCREAMY ::INSERT RANDOM PART::
I am a rigid weapons specialist. I have firearms and a crap load of tactical training. I have the peculiar talent of being able to pick up almost anything and use it as a weapon. My house is fully alarmed as well as guarded by two beasts who have the innate ability to pick out a bad guy at 40 paces, but not bite him until told to do so. None of these things are any help at all when I'm lying on my back in the dark at 1:00 AM.
A couple weeks ago while letting the dogs out, I fell. I was exactly half in and half out of the door, my upper body on the floor inside, and my legs stuck under the screen door to the patio outside. I absolutely could not get up. Rue came inside, through the Rue-sized crack in the screen door...I am glad I fell in such a way so the door did not completely shut. I was scared. She sat by my my head for about 15 minutes and scrubbed the side of my face with her nose the whole time I was blubbering. When I finally regained my wits, I stuck my right hand in her collar and she was able to drag me inside enough so the door closed. I was finally able to get my feet on the floor and push myself inside--sliding on my back while I pushed with my feet. I made it to the rug where I had enough traction to roll over and get on all-fours, crawl to a chair and eventually stand by climbing up the chair, although bent over at the waist, The time spent wallowing around was about an hour in total. I was not terribly hurt, just bruised and breathless.
The following day I realized what Rue had been doing. In the past, when she has wanted me up, awake and out of bed for various reasons, she will touch her nose to my cheek, then scrub vigorously back and forth. To Rue, face-scrubbing means "GET UP!" It has always worked for her in the past, why wouldn't it work this time? She was trying to help me get up in the only way she knew how, the way that has worked best for her in the past. If I have nothing else, at least I have a smart dog.
The latest on my screamy heart is I have a major (80%) blockage in the right coronary artery. I have grown a collateral vessel that is the only supplier of blood to the right side of my heart, and now it too has a blockage. Because of that I have near constant heart-type chest pain (over and above the chest pain caused by nerve damage). I am gasping for breath with even the slightest bit of movement. They can't fix the new blockage with surgery, and definitely not with stents, since it is too far down in the vessel. They can only give me drugs and hope that they work. In the meantime, I feel so bad that I am actually surprised when I wake up in the morning. I open my eyes and look around and think, "DAMMIT! I survived another night."
I haven't published since March. The biggest event in that missing time period was a car crash in early May, about which I am not allowed to speak per my lawyer. Gah. Suffice it to say I am still broken and seeking people to put me back together in the correct order.
My heart sucks more than usual, in that it has actually become an obstacle in treating my various wounds. Because I have metal in my chest, I cannot have an MRI. One guy said, "I can't fix anything I can't see. Without an MRI I can't see any of the parts." I shouted at him, "What the hell did people do before the MRI was invented? DO THAT, FFS!" This coming Thursday, I see a bone doctor. Oh joy, oh rapture, more pain...I can hardly wait.
You know, there is not much in life that I'm afraid of--I've been in a number of life-threatening scrapes. I have physically been unable to run for many years, so anything that calls for the flight or fight adrenalin surge, will always make me choose to stand and fight, out of sheer necessity. I developed skills that the ordinary person does not have just because my one fear is that of being helpless. Well, helpless is coming at me like a steam train, and there's nothing I can do about it. Skills mean nothing when I'm lying on my back in the dark at 1:00 AM.
A couple weeks ago while letting the dogs out, I fell. I was exactly half in and half out of the door, my upper body on the floor inside, and my legs stuck under the screen door to the patio outside. I absolutely could not get up. Rue came inside, through the Rue-sized crack in the screen door...I am glad I fell in such a way so the door did not completely shut. I was scared. She sat by my my head for about 15 minutes and scrubbed the side of my face with her nose the whole time I was blubbering. When I finally regained my wits, I stuck my right hand in her collar and she was able to drag me inside enough so the door closed. I was finally able to get my feet on the floor and push myself inside--sliding on my back while I pushed with my feet. I made it to the rug where I had enough traction to roll over and get on all-fours, crawl to a chair and eventually stand by climbing up the chair, although bent over at the waist, The time spent wallowing around was about an hour in total. I was not terribly hurt, just bruised and breathless.
The following day I realized what Rue had been doing. In the past, when she has wanted me up, awake and out of bed for various reasons, she will touch her nose to my cheek, then scrub vigorously back and forth. To Rue, face-scrubbing means "GET UP!" It has always worked for her in the past, why wouldn't it work this time? She was trying to help me get up in the only way she knew how, the way that has worked best for her in the past. If I have nothing else, at least I have a smart dog.
The latest on my screamy heart is I have a major (80%) blockage in the right coronary artery. I have grown a collateral vessel that is the only supplier of blood to the right side of my heart, and now it too has a blockage. Because of that I have near constant heart-type chest pain (over and above the chest pain caused by nerve damage). I am gasping for breath with even the slightest bit of movement. They can't fix the new blockage with surgery, and definitely not with stents, since it is too far down in the vessel. They can only give me drugs and hope that they work. In the meantime, I feel so bad that I am actually surprised when I wake up in the morning. I open my eyes and look around and think, "DAMMIT! I survived another night."
I haven't published since March. The biggest event in that missing time period was a car crash in early May, about which I am not allowed to speak per my lawyer. Gah. Suffice it to say I am still broken and seeking people to put me back together in the correct order.
My heart sucks more than usual, in that it has actually become an obstacle in treating my various wounds. Because I have metal in my chest, I cannot have an MRI. One guy said, "I can't fix anything I can't see. Without an MRI I can't see any of the parts." I shouted at him, "What the hell did people do before the MRI was invented? DO THAT, FFS!" This coming Thursday, I see a bone doctor. Oh joy, oh rapture, more pain...I can hardly wait.
You know, there is not much in life that I'm afraid of--I've been in a number of life-threatening scrapes. I have physically been unable to run for many years, so anything that calls for the flight or fight adrenalin surge, will always make me choose to stand and fight, out of sheer necessity. I developed skills that the ordinary person does not have just because my one fear is that of being helpless. Well, helpless is coming at me like a steam train, and there's nothing I can do about it. Skills mean nothing when I'm lying on my back in the dark at 1:00 AM.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Bad Luck o' the Irish
Throughout history, the Irish have had some of the worst luck ever. People should think this through before wishing it on anyone.
St. Patrick's day became popular because it was the only feast day that always fell during Lent.
This meant Catholics were allowed to eat meat and butter on this day and this day only, then not again until Easter Sunday. The Catholic Church used to suck with its rules and rituals. It still sucks, just not as hard.
I give to you today my favorite Irish saying/toast/prayer:
May those that love us continue to love us
May those that hate us turn to love us, and
Dear Lord, if you cannot turn their hearts, turn their ankles
so that we may know them by their limps.
St. Patrick's day became popular because it was the only feast day that always fell during Lent.
This meant Catholics were allowed to eat meat and butter on this day and this day only, then not again until Easter Sunday. The Catholic Church used to suck with its rules and rituals. It still sucks, just not as hard.
I give to you today my favorite Irish saying/toast/prayer:
May those that love us continue to love us
May those that hate us turn to love us, and
Dear Lord, if you cannot turn their hearts, turn their ankles
so that we may know them by their limps.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
OWW MY SCREAMY HEART
Spent all day with the Heart doc. Left feeling crushed. They'll be calling me tomorrow to make test appointments. He suspects blockage in additional vessels. I can't breathe. I can't breathe because all the air has suddenly been sucked out of my world by the enormous vacuum called *bad news.* I have the misfortune of having shitty genes and an abundance of lipoprotein-a. I am about to crawl under the porch, taking my nitro pills with me. Nobody better get a stick and poke at me, because by God I just might snap.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
OWW MY SCREAMY BOOBS, ROUND 3
This morning bright and early I toddled off to Dr. Turban-wearer's office. I waited in the waiting room. I waited in the exam room. When he finally got to me he said straight away, "I am sending you back to your referring physician and releasing you. There is nothing I can do for you."
"Releasing me? After only one visit and only one drug?" I pleaded. No response. "WTF is the matter with you?"
"There is nothing I can do to help you." He looked at the floor.
"So you're just giving up? You're not even going to try? What about the drugs I'm on now? Where am I supposed to get those? You know perfectly well a primary won't prescribe the narcotics I've been taking! What about my panic attacks? Where am I supposed to get Ativan, without which I will soon be hospital-bound?"
Without looking at me even once, he launched into preaching mode, "This is a pain you are just going to have to learn to live with. You have too many things wrong with you. Your heart, your back, your various injuries, your neuro-muscular issues...all of these are sources of pain and there is nothing I can do that will make it better. We all have to live with pain. For instance right now I have a headache and my hip hurts. See how I am standing?"
"I don't give a shit about your headache or your fucking hip. Take some aspirin and go see your referring physician." I left.
I got into my car and sat in the parking lot for about 15 minutes just weeping. I have 24 days to find a drug source or I'm up shit creek. This pain is unendurable. Even with drugs it is barely manageable. I can't just *learn to live with it* since it affects every aspect of my life. It affects how I get out of bed, how I put on clothes, how I comb my hair, what I eat and how I eat it. Goddammit I can't even take a shower since each bead of water that falls on my skin feels like a dagger.
Sheer desperation has made me consider having mastectomies, wondering if I actually cut off my screamy boobs if they'll stop being so urgently screamy. On the other hand, if it's the nerve that is damaged, the nerve will still be there, and so will the pain. I can't win.
Suddenly it all becomes clear, and I understand it completely. This my friends, is exactly how heroin addicts get made -- out of sheer desperation.
"Releasing me? After only one visit and only one drug?" I pleaded. No response. "WTF is the matter with you?"
"There is nothing I can do to help you." He looked at the floor.
"So you're just giving up? You're not even going to try? What about the drugs I'm on now? Where am I supposed to get those? You know perfectly well a primary won't prescribe the narcotics I've been taking! What about my panic attacks? Where am I supposed to get Ativan, without which I will soon be hospital-bound?"
Without looking at me even once, he launched into preaching mode, "This is a pain you are just going to have to learn to live with. You have too many things wrong with you. Your heart, your back, your various injuries, your neuro-muscular issues...all of these are sources of pain and there is nothing I can do that will make it better. We all have to live with pain. For instance right now I have a headache and my hip hurts. See how I am standing?"
"I don't give a shit about your headache or your fucking hip. Take some aspirin and go see your referring physician." I left.
I got into my car and sat in the parking lot for about 15 minutes just weeping. I have 24 days to find a drug source or I'm up shit creek. This pain is unendurable. Even with drugs it is barely manageable. I can't just *learn to live with it* since it affects every aspect of my life. It affects how I get out of bed, how I put on clothes, how I comb my hair, what I eat and how I eat it. Goddammit I can't even take a shower since each bead of water that falls on my skin feels like a dagger.
Sheer desperation has made me consider having mastectomies, wondering if I actually cut off my screamy boobs if they'll stop being so urgently screamy. On the other hand, if it's the nerve that is damaged, the nerve will still be there, and so will the pain. I can't win.
Suddenly it all becomes clear, and I understand it completely. This my friends, is exactly how heroin addicts get made -- out of sheer desperation.
Friday, October 12, 2012
OWW MY IMAGINARY BACON
I had high hopes for the drug, Lyrica. I took it for a total of two weeks. The first week I felt pretty good. The second week I started crying. Not just crying like my eyes were leaking, but crying as in sobbing and wailing in grief. I'm still not over it.
I called Dr. Turban-wearer's office to report my symptoms. After taking a ration of shit from his secretary, my phone call was returned later that day. She had the gall to say to me, "Well, are you a patient of Dr. Turban-wearer's? I just don't know why you would be calling here to tell me you're having symptoms." I was stunned. I said, "No, lady. I just picked a random phone number to call out of the phone book. YES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I AM A PATIENT. Do you have a pen in your hand? Yes? Great, write this down..."
Last night I dreamt I was eating a bacon sandwich with mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, of all things. I was crying while I was eating it. I woke up crying in actuality. This is how fuckered my brain has become in only two short weeks of Lyrica. I can't sleep worth a damn. Not sleeping is nothing new, but I certainly don't need dreams that make me cry when I finally do manage to fall into a deep enough sleep to conjure up a dream.
If you engage me in conversation, you might not get answers you're expecting. Consider this fair warning: I am not my usual "ray of sunshine" self. The fact that I can recognize that I am slightly off is a good thing, I suppose. Now, I'm just hoping it passes quickly. I don't need to be a total uber-depressed nutjob in addition to my *regular* ailments.
My next appointment with Dr. Turban-wearer is October 24, when I suppose he will move onto the next drug. I'm running out of possibilities and time both, FFS. Since the recent news of contaminated steroid shots and the resulting outbreak of meningitis, I am ever so glad I didn't jump on the shot bandwagon right away. I'm desperate, but not desperate enough for meningitis.
I called Dr. Turban-wearer's office to report my symptoms. After taking a ration of shit from his secretary, my phone call was returned later that day. She had the gall to say to me, "Well, are you a patient of Dr. Turban-wearer's? I just don't know why you would be calling here to tell me you're having symptoms." I was stunned. I said, "No, lady. I just picked a random phone number to call out of the phone book. YES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I AM A PATIENT. Do you have a pen in your hand? Yes? Great, write this down..."
Last night I dreamt I was eating a bacon sandwich with mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, of all things. I was crying while I was eating it. I woke up crying in actuality. This is how fuckered my brain has become in only two short weeks of Lyrica. I can't sleep worth a damn. Not sleeping is nothing new, but I certainly don't need dreams that make me cry when I finally do manage to fall into a deep enough sleep to conjure up a dream.
If you engage me in conversation, you might not get answers you're expecting. Consider this fair warning: I am not my usual "ray of sunshine" self. The fact that I can recognize that I am slightly off is a good thing, I suppose. Now, I'm just hoping it passes quickly. I don't need to be a total uber-depressed nutjob in addition to my *regular* ailments.
My next appointment with Dr. Turban-wearer is October 24, when I suppose he will move onto the next drug. I'm running out of possibilities and time both, FFS. Since the recent news of contaminated steroid shots and the resulting outbreak of meningitis, I am ever so glad I didn't jump on the shot bandwagon right away. I'm desperate, but not desperate enough for meningitis.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
THE HOARD OF PAIN
Dammit, I started a gout attack yesterday. Just what I needed, another pain. Incidentally, let's talk about SCREAMY FRIGGIN PAINS...Gout is a very urgent, acute type of stabbing pain. I don't know if it's connected to the change in meds or not. It is on the opposite side from where my previous attacks have occurred. I guess I'll find out, won't I? The only bonus in having a gout attack is that it makes my other pains seem less urgent. Yay for the brain, which has a way of addressing the most hideous pain first, and kind of shoving the other pains into the background. UGH!
It occurred to me today while watching TLC, that I have become a collector of pains-- a pain hoarder, if you will. Honest-to-goodness *stuff* hoarders will collect things and not even notice it's a problem until they are positively inundated by their items, or killed when a pile collapses on them. They rarely seek help unless until their horrible secret is discovered by loved ones, or the stench alerts authorities. My hoard of various pains is slowly killing me, smothering me under their weight, looming over me in a great, teetering pile, affecting every aspect of my life. Where did I put that snorkel?
Monday, September 24, 2012
2ND OPINION: OWW MY SCREAMY BOOBS
I just got back from seeing a new pain specialist, hereafter to be known as *Dr. Turban-wearer,* and I have a new plan of attack. I had been hoping for injections, but he said since my pain is neuralgic/ neuropathic in nature, injections would probably not help and might even make me worse. He gave me three new drugs to try, one of which is Lyrica.
Dr. Turban-wearer told me today that when they opened my chest and spread the ribs apart, the nerves to T5 and T6 were damaged, which certainly explains the screamy boobs and the rib pain. It does not explain the continuing sternum pain. It does not explain my screamy xiphoid process. So, I got some answers, but not all. I am supposed to call him after five consecutive days on the drugs he issued today, to say if I am better or the same. WOW, he expects a result in only 5 days. That alone makes me a little hopeful.
He said, "I know you are in terrible pain, but I also think you are a little mad." I asked if he meant *mad* as in bat-shit crazy, or *mad* as in angry? He laughed. I admitted to both. Being in pain this long without help has made me crazy. Being in pain this long and having doctors who do nothing has certainly made me angry.
I have completely stopped taking Neurontin/Gabapentin, the drug which was responsible for turning me into a floppy rag doll. All along it had not been helping my pain, and Dr. Whackadoo's solution was to increase the doseage, which only made me more clumsy and more floppy. The last thing any myasthenic needs is additional help at being weak (the point Dr. No-Fly, the neurologist, had been trying to make from the get-go).
I have an appointment with Dr. Whackadoo tomorrow. It will most likely be my last visit with him, unless he has received some profound revelation in the past several days, or has miraculously grown wings and stigmata since the last time I saw him.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
DUELING DOCS - A TALE OF TWO TITTIES
At this very moment Dr. Whackadoo and Dr. No-Fly are duking it out over my medications. I wish I could get them in the same room and mediate. No-Fly says Whackadoo's meds are poison. Whackadoo says I must take the crap he's prescribed AS prescribed. I am inclined to agree with
Dr. No-Fly, unfortunately I just can't stop taking these drugs, as much as I'd like to do it.
The subject of today's battle in particular is Neurontin, aka Gabapentin, which has turned me into a rag doll. I'm weak, short of breath with any movement, unable to walk more than 20 feet - plus...THE KNIFE IN MY CHEST IS KILLING ME. How many times do I have to tell them that before someone hears? This drug is obviously not helping my pain. The whole reason Whackadoo exists is to treat pain. Nothing else, just pain.
Let me give you today's pain example: This morning in the bathtub, gingerly wiping *Lefty* with a soapy washrag caused me to scream and gasp for breath. WTF?
Dr. Whackadoo is a small, scrawny man. I could easily crush him with one blow, even in my weakened state. I think constantly about crushing Whackadoo. I think about grinding my heel into his adam's apple after he's hit the floor. Of course, this crushing and grinding does not happen until I've fastened a bulldog binder clip to each of his nipples and given them several twists, so he has a slight inkling of how my chest feels. I'd have to tie him up first because I know he'd never hold still. He's the type that would go all squirmy and piss himself in the face of any threat. That, and I can't run him down due to having the legs of a rag doll. Well-played, Dr. Whackadoo--incapacitate the linebacker-sized woman with drugs BEFORE she does you great bodily harm. Pfft.
I can lay on my couch. I can walk to my bathroom. I can walk into my garage and get in the car. I can feed my dogs and let them out. If it's not boiling hot outside, I can even stand on my patio while the dogs are doing their dog things. I really can't do much else, other than watch life go on around me without being a part of it. So, if some tragic event happens to befall Dr. Whackadoo, I have a perfect alibi. Unless the Memphis PD has a Jedi Mind Trick or Voodoo Department I figure I'm safe. Oh, but a girl can dream...
Dr. No-Fly, unfortunately I just can't stop taking these drugs, as much as I'd like to do it.
The subject of today's battle in particular is Neurontin, aka Gabapentin, which has turned me into a rag doll. I'm weak, short of breath with any movement, unable to walk more than 20 feet - plus...THE KNIFE IN MY CHEST IS KILLING ME. How many times do I have to tell them that before someone hears? This drug is obviously not helping my pain. The whole reason Whackadoo exists is to treat pain. Nothing else, just pain.
Let me give you today's pain example: This morning in the bathtub, gingerly wiping *Lefty* with a soapy washrag caused me to scream and gasp for breath. WTF?
Dr. Whackadoo is a small, scrawny man. I could easily crush him with one blow, even in my weakened state. I think constantly about crushing Whackadoo. I think about grinding my heel into his adam's apple after he's hit the floor. Of course, this crushing and grinding does not happen until I've fastened a bulldog binder clip to each of his nipples and given them several twists, so he has a slight inkling of how my chest feels. I'd have to tie him up first because I know he'd never hold still. He's the type that would go all squirmy and piss himself in the face of any threat. That, and I can't run him down due to having the legs of a rag doll. Well-played, Dr. Whackadoo--incapacitate the linebacker-sized woman with drugs BEFORE she does you great bodily harm. Pfft.
I can lay on my couch. I can walk to my bathroom. I can walk into my garage and get in the car. I can feed my dogs and let them out. If it's not boiling hot outside, I can even stand on my patio while the dogs are doing their dog things. I really can't do much else, other than watch life go on around me without being a part of it. So, if some tragic event happens to befall Dr. Whackadoo, I have a perfect alibi. Unless the Memphis PD has a Jedi Mind Trick or Voodoo Department I figure I'm safe. Oh, but a girl can dream...
Friday, August 24, 2012
Turtling
I've been reminded that it has been some time since I made a post. Permanently losing more than half my entries kind of took the wind out of my blog sail.
I am living day to day, sometimes hour to hour, trying to kick the benny habit. I have made it to half the original dose. I can barely function. I can't sleep. I am ravenously hungry. I am so stressed I can do little other than make short forays away from my house for necessities, not to mention the stupefying heat that is keeping me indoors. My weak little grinch heart cannot take the heat and humidity. I have not unpacked anything and my lawn looks like shit.
Speaking of shit, I have managed to keep the back yard relatively shit free for the simple reason that the super werewolf smelling powers I have developed will not let me tolerate the stink of "barnyard."
I still feel like I have a knife in my chest. My boobs are still killing me. My doctors are still idiots. I am playing the mindless Facebook game, CastleVille, just so I won't kill anyone. Life turtles onward.
I am living day to day, sometimes hour to hour, trying to kick the benny habit. I have made it to half the original dose. I can barely function. I can't sleep. I am ravenously hungry. I am so stressed I can do little other than make short forays away from my house for necessities, not to mention the stupefying heat that is keeping me indoors. My weak little grinch heart cannot take the heat and humidity. I have not unpacked anything and my lawn looks like shit.
Speaking of shit, I have managed to keep the back yard relatively shit free for the simple reason that the super werewolf smelling powers I have developed will not let me tolerate the stink of "barnyard."
I still feel like I have a knife in my chest. My boobs are still killing me. My doctors are still idiots. I am playing the mindless Facebook game, CastleVille, just so I won't kill anyone. Life turtles onward.
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