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.

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.

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?

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...

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.

Haiku for Buzzards

Buzzards circle me
I'm not on the menu yet
So I flip the bird

Pain Haiku x 2

Stabbed with knife-like ribs
Every deep breath is torture
Movement agony

Desperate for relief
No treatments can touch my pain
I demand an end

Back to square one. I can think of nothing else but pain. Once again, pain is my ruler.  It sucks bad, and I can't explain it to someone who has not ever had unrelenting pain. Wondering if I should gobble some more steroids, but will be right back in the same position I'm in now as soon as I wean off again. 

I am beginning to think that either the metal in my chest needs to come out, or
my ribs are separated, or my sternum has a non-union.  The pain is exquisite, and it seems I can't get anyone to listen to me.

I am considering trolling the streets for a pain pill supply. Or at least polling everyone I see for a pain pill-prescribing doctor who is accepting patients.

2 Steps Back

I swear my last name should be Murphy.  My entire genetic line should belong to the Murphy family.  I'm talking about the Murphy's Law people - if something possibly can go wrong, it will.  It has been just one fubar after the other for me, all week long. 

I've felt kinda down the past couple days.  I thought a haircut might help.  It didn't, it just made me look more like Beethoven.  I have vowed that it will be my last haircut.  I am tired of screwing with hair - I never should have gotten it cut in the first place.  It WANTS to be long and straight and I have decided to let it be long and straight.  No more fighting it.  It will be happier and I will be less stressed.

I started playing my guitar again today after a long absence.  My hands are very slow, and I can't remember even one entire song.  This might be part of pumphead syndrome, but in any case, my illness has stolen my music from me. I used to have a footlocker full of sheet music, but no telling where that might be or if it even exists anymore.

I can barely handle the 12-string.  I have a 6-string acoustic that actually has a bullet hole in it...don't ask.  The damned thing won't stay tuned, even for one song.  I think it needs new tuners at the very least.  Anyway, I'm toying with the idea of getting another 6 string.  Since the one I have is basically unplayable, and would probably cost just as much to fix as the cost of a new/gently used guitar. 

I also need to get back to my toy-making, but that takes a little more concentration than I have available right now.

The whole point of this is stress relief. I could be out walking/training my Rue dog, but since I have a broken ass, I've been trying to move as little as possible. I still have pain issues - it's just that the pains have given themselves different priorities now. God forbid somebody should give me a fucking pain pill.  I see the pain guy on the 23rd.  Maybe he'll take pity on my broken, swollen ass, but probably not....I'm a Murphy underneath it all.

I AM THE BOSS OF YOU

For various reasons, my medical case is being reviewed by Best Doctors, Inc., based out of Boston.  In order to do this, they must collect my medical records from every doctor, clinic or hospital I've visited over the past several years.  The staff of these offices are of course uncooperative to begin with, seeing that it's extra work, but generally go ahead and send whatever they are bidden. A good review from Best Doctors is actually a big deal for them, as results are published country-wide.  All except for one, Dr. No-Fly List, and his neurology staff.

This started yesterday afternoon when the RN who is overseeing my case called me and said she could get absolutely nowhere from Dr. No-Fly List's staff.  They insisted they had no films of any MRIs I had there, that I had never had an MRI there, and I should call the hospital where I had had the MRI and jump on them. 

As it happens I had two sets of MRIs done at their office. Yes, Dr. No-Fly List has his very own MRI machine!  I tell the nurse, "Don't worry about it, I'll get it for you, and call you if I can't...but trust me, I'm like a bulldog when it comes to stuff like this."  "OOO I knew you would be!  Isn't it funny how you can tell about peoples' personalities just by talking to them a few times on the phone?"

After spending at least an hour on the phone talking to several neurology personnel, and being on hold for at least 45 of those minutes, I say to myself, "This is such bullshit," hang up the phone, get in my car and drive down to their office. 

"OMG Miss Lee, what are you doing here?"  "You know why I'm here.  I'll be staying here until I have a CD in my hand containing all my information.  Do you understand?"  "Yes, Ma'am."  "That includes the films or CD images of the MRIs, the reports, and any other pertinent information related to my case.  Do you understand?"  "Yes, Ma'am."  I had a CD in my hot little paw within 10 minutes.  Ahh Good times.  I wasn't even wearing leather.  I was in a zombie tee shirt fer cryinoutloud!  Meh.  When you have *it* I guess it doesn't matter what you're wearing, but sometimes it DOES help.

I really wish I could sit in a chair for 10 hours a day, since it's apparent they need an office manager and I would be SO perfect for the job.  *eyeroll*

7 Red Hairs

So this is my hair in the sunlight.  I think I have 7 actual red hairs left.  Ignore the rest of the pic just look at the hair  lol.  So far the gray hairs have gotten me the senior discount at Sally's Beauty Supply.  I'm workin' it, dammit!

MMA

Wow tomorrow night there's an MMA title fight here.  I turned it down - I'm not in fighting condition yet  LOL. 

Seriously, I doubt if I could even sit on a folding chair for more than 15 minutes let alone even walk to the ring, and I damned sure don't want anyone to bleed on me.  Plus, I have never been to a fight where some altercation didn't happen outside of the ring, and sure as shit I'd be in the thick of it - just my lot in life to be "in the thick of things."  I'm staying my ass home.

FFS

I just got *rapist scratches* from my dog, Rue, who was so apparently excited to see me after having been gone all day, decided to claw the shit out of me instead...   I have three huge claw marks that go from the bottom of my ear, across my neck, and actually JOIN to my heart scar at mid-chest.  GAHHHHH. So attractive  So very hurty. Need to recover.  Too damned bad I can't have a drink. Oh wait, I have Percocet. ::looks sideways at no one in particular:: 

Hmm...interesting that the pic doesn't look nearly as bad as it does in person (cause I have those shitty squiggly light bulbs).  I'm tellin' ya if I was a man I would automatically be a suspect for something heinous.

When is it my turn

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

Bad Haiku #137

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

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

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

Wrath for the Pain Doctor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her Redeeming Quality

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

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

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

Blue Haired Old Lady

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

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

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

Primary Dimwit

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seven-Eleven, HA!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hairy Sheets

I have what is known as a "great room," which is a living room and kitchen and dining room, all combined into one big room.  A tall, bar stool height counter separates the kitchen from the rest, in the shape of a big squared off "U."  In terms of size, if necessary, I could fit 9 bar stools at my bar.  I actually own bar stools, but being a pain in my ass and always in the way, I have relegated them to the attic. 


The counter top tends to collect things--which has always pissed me off.  I HATE stuff on counters.  I have considered buying 18 to 20-ft of pigeon spikes to ward off the mail, gadgetry, dog treats, a couple potted plants, about 39 pens, medication bottles, Kleenex boxes, flashlights, packs of gum, loose change and other assorted counter top detritus.  It has gotten particularly bad since I've been sick. It will just have to wait.

I have made myself a nest on the couch.  This way I'm in the thick of things. I am right next to the back door for the letting out of dogs. I am near to the fridge and pantry - just toddle a few steps and I can eat and drink something. The TV is out here, and I can put my laptop on the coffee table. The guest bath is just on the other side of one wall.  I have everything I need in my nest. It's perfect. Except for the hair.


I hate hair. Naturally I would have 3 dogs made of nothing except hair. Ok, make that hair and teeth. I even went so far as to shave poor Tater one year - left her a big lion tuft at the end of her tail and nothing else. She moped for about 3 days, and from then on I swore there would be no more dog shaving.


I was forced to do a load of laundry today--the sheets and blanket from my couch. If I am on the couch, the dogs want to be close at hand. Binky, the little one, gets on the couch with me. The other two lunks mill around nearby, brushing up against the couch, wiping hair along the sides, leaning up against it, etc., the whole time just bleeding hair onto the damned couch. If I never vacuumed, the entire house would turn into felt.

Fan Dancing

I have this feeling that if I cough or sneeze just one time too many, my ribs will spring open like two giant, bony fans.

They gave me a heart shaped pillow at the hospital, roughly the size of my torso, to "hug tightly" every time I have to cough or sneeze.  I am also supposed to wear it between the seat belt and my body when I get in a car.

I used to sing. My voice has been classically trained, is a natural dramatic contralto, and I can sing in all registers.  Now I can't take a deep enough breath to give a decent cough.  If I tried to sing now I'd sound like Johnny Cash singing Nirvana on his last album right before he died.  How sexy.  There was a time when my voice could fill a packed house without a mic.  Those days are over.  Maybe I'll look into Fan Dancing if my ribs cooperate.