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.

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.

DOOMED TO RABIES?

Pie Darkstone

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October 30, 2014

Dr. xxxxxxxxxxxxx

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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,

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.

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.

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.

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.